


A Spark and a Shadow

by 3jarsofbees



Series: The Dreadful "After" [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Minrathous, Post-Trespasser, Tevinter Imperium, endless sarcasm, some domestic bliss, some life-threatening trifles, some stabbing and death, what even are tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jarsofbees/pseuds/3jarsofbees
Summary: Following Trespasser, Dorian and Lavellan were at an impasse: Dorian is needed in Tevinter, which just isn’t a safe place for the ex-Inquisitor to be.Good thing that the ex-Inquisitor absolutely, definitely isn’t in Tevinter. Nope. Definitely not.(a.k.a.: Exploring the many types of dangerous nonsense that might befall a Lavellan hiding out in Tevinter. Also: How to maintain a loving relationship with your partner the figurative ghost.)





	1. Halla and Thorn

“I heard a little rumour, Pavus.”

Dorian is furiously scribbling a last-ditch amendment at his seat within the humid, cavernous halls of the Magisterium when this pointed phrase is lobbed at him from behind. Suppressing a sigh, he says, “Oh? Do tell, then.”

What will it be this time? ‘I heard you're trying to betroth yourself to an elven slave’? ‘I heard you drank ten bottles of brandy at Magister Tilani’s last soirée and attempted to shit in someone’s hat’? ‘I heard you threw a depraved sex party and actually dared to invite the Divine’?

At first he’d been amused by the rumours that his fellow Magisters liked to bandy about, even if they were just transparent attempts to trip up his composure. But the longer Dorian worked in the Magisterium, the more he saw this whole game as an intolerable bore. Couldn’t these people ever think of anything new?

Today it’s Gallius, that smug tit, who is leaning over Dorian's seat. “I heard that your Inquisitor was spotted in Minrathous last week.”

 _Oh,_ Dorian thinks. _Well, that actually is a new one._

(None of Dorian’s countrymen seem to be capable of getting Lavellan’s title right, though Dorian is never sure if this is out of ignorance or pure spite. “That southern Herald person,” “the so-called Inquisitor,” “the Barbarian of Andraste”—those are the most usual incarnations. “Your Inquisitor” is actually a rather polite variant, all things considered.)

“I hadn’t heard that,” Dorian says. “Who told you?”

Gallius shrugs. “It’s just been making the rounds.”

“No source, then? Gallius, for shame.”

Gallius raises his shoulders higher, still smiling mildly. “I simply thought you might be curious to hear it. Given your... entanglements.”

“Well, if you have any further details, then of course, I’d be incredibly curious,” Dorian says. “But the number of baseless ‘sightings’ I’ve heard of in the last few months alone is staggering. You’ll excuse me if I fail to get my hopes up for this one.”

Dorian notices a flash of interest in Gallius’s eyes at the words ‘get my hopes up.’ _Like a shark scenting blood, aren’t you?_

“I understood that you and he had parted ways,” Gallius says. “But then you still hope to find him, regardless?”

“Should he even still live, I’m certain he would prefer if _I_ weren’t the one to find him. But it would... ease my mind to know if he were safe.” Dorian leans back in his chair, sighing, looking up at Gallius with a wistful expression. “Most days I doubt that he does live, if I’m perfectly honest. His people have already gone to incredible lengths to search for him, to absolutely no avail... Still, I’m not surprised that rumours like this continue to circle. You can’t blame people for wanting to hope, I suppose.”

“No, indeed,” Gallius says. “Well! I had no idea you were so concerned. I shall be certain to inform you straight away if I hear anything more.”

Dorian smiles up at Gallius—a warm, brave smile, in spite of a slight hitch that’s come up in his throat. “That’s kind of you. Thank you. I would appreciate that very much.”

Gallius smirks back, nods, and strides away again.

Dropping his eyes back to his proposal, Dorian can’t help but do his very quietest derisive scoff into the pages. _Twat._

* * *

On the Minrathous harbour, a small elf stands in the pouring rain, hood up, squinting through the mist rising up from below the docks. The city is almost invisible from here, the bulk of it wiped out by fog and water, even though he stands directly at its feet.

Sometimes people ask him if being in a city the size of Minrathous makes him miss his home. “I’m Dalish,” is his eternal reply. “We don’t have homes.”

Of course, he knows what the question is really getting at: open fields, meadows, forests, streams... The beauty of nature is not particularly accessible in the engineered, horizon-dominating, magic-thrumming stone behemoth that is Minrathous. This place is all architecture and artifice in the centre, steam and decay and tight bodies packed out in the slums.

While he’d never admit it out loud, the feel of Minrathous does weigh on him once in a while. He misses that indulgent squelch of grassy mud under his toes, the savoury smell of fresh herbs plucked straight from the earth, the peaceful feeling of staring up into breezy, light-dappled foliage...

Still, even in Minrathous, nature hasn’t forgotten him entirely. This is especially clear on days like today: sheets of rain driving up the coast, hammering the walls and windows, sending all human activity scurrying indoors, streets abandoned to himself and the elements. He finds something innately comforting in the idea that, no matter how grandly you try to build your city, sometimes nature still pounds the shit out of it.

Tevinters attempt to defy this insult, of course—it’s what they do—he knows today the city centre will be covered in an arrogant show of magic that shields the inner squares from precipitation. But the outskirts, less prized, are left to the mercy of the storm, and right now there’s no one in these harbourside streets except him and the endless rivulets of rainwater snaking through the stones, making their way down into the ocean.

The only people he ever seems to sight out in this weather are slaves. Once in a while, they can be seen hurrying through the rain, trying to complete some menial errand for their masters, hoping to be quick enough that they won’t be punished on their return.

All of which makes rainstorms a rather perfect time for his purposes.

Coming around the bend, he spots the woman he’s been trailing for days. He knows she’s asked about him, that she has some desperate situation, though he’s hazy on the details. She pauses by a window, staring through it, trying to determine without the aid of literacy if this shop might have what she needs to find. He sidles up to her, leans up against the wall.

“Thorn,” he says.

It’s a slang term—technically an abbreviation of an obscure elven word: “Thornamin,” literally meaning something like, “After much turmoil, a period of rest is now granted to us.” In his younger years the term had been popular with Dalish teens, and in their mouths it had eventually been truncated to “Thorn”—a derivative which carries a meaning more to the effect of, “Fuck this, let’s go.”

It seems the most fitting thing in this situation, so it’s what he always says. An invitation of sorts. And one that spares him from having to use his voice too extensively in public.

(Of course, most slaves he encounters in Minrathous don’t actually speak elven. So, through months of rumours and whispers filtering through the grapevine, the general impression has become that Thorn is his name. He’s never bothered to correct this—it seems fitting, too.)

The woman beside him stares, eyes widening, and she starts to shake. Ruddy skin, brown hair, city elf. Fereldan, most likely. “You,” she says. “You’re... n-now? Oh, no, I...”

They don’t always say yes. Many freeze up in the moment, say no, they can’t go, they’re much too afraid. In this case he usually leaves them to stew for a few days, then chances to drift by them again. There is much less hesitation the second time. Some still say no, of course—but many fairly collapse with relief on seeing they’ve been granted another chance to escape.

“Your choice,” he tells her.

She starts to cry. Keeping to his character, he resists the urge to give her a comforting squeeze. “I can’t,” she says. “My daughter... they still have her, they’ll...”

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _No one told me there was a daughter._

“I can’t leave her,” the woman says. “I’m so sorry. Thank you. I can’t stay, I have to hurry, I...”

“What’s your master’s name?” he asks.

Her eyes widen. He doesn’t know if she’ll answer, but after a moment, she whispers, “Severin.”

“You would go with your daughter?”

“Yes,” she says, and looks urgently over her shoulder, then back again. “Yes, I would. Please. I...”

“I’ll try,” he says, and then, before this interaction can start to look conspicuous, he disappears back down the pier.

* * *

In the front hall of his home, Dorian is greeted by a tall, slight, eager elven servant.

“Avanna, Lord Pavus,” Endriel says, in his shaky Tevene accent.

“Aneth ara,” Dorian replies, in his shaky elven one. And then, their customary exchange over, he asks, “Has Halla returned yet?”

“This afternoon, Lord Pavus. He’s upstairs now.”

Dorian hadn’t even realized how much tension is stored up between his shoulders until now, when they finally relax. “Ma serannas, Endriel.”

He leaves his cloak with Endriel and climbs the steps to his personal quarters, where his warm, drapery-swathed bedroom leads into a neighbouring study, containing his ornately carved desk, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of his many notes and books and magical artifacts, as organized as they possibly can be, given how many of them he has crammed into this space...

But yet again, this studious environment has been rudely disturbed by ‘Halla,’ who is sprawled across the desk with his ass square on Dorian’s notes, his legs dangling over the edge, one hand holding some book open in his face, reading intently. Worse still, his hair is _wet_ —dark, thick curls lazily towelled off from a morning spent in the rain, but not nearly dry enough to stop them from dampening the page under his head. 

Despite this clear affront to Dorian’s business, he finds himself smiling with fond relief at the sight of this interloper. Sheer madness, really.

“You know, we do own a great number of chairs,” Dorian says.

The elf on Dorian’s desk grins over at him. “But if I sat in a chair, then how would I ruin your day?”

“You’d find a new way, I expect. You always seem to.”

“What can I say? You inspire me.”

Dorian laughs, then comes to the desk, plucking away the book and tossing it over his shoulder, taking the man behind it by the chin, bending down to kiss him with a rush of warmth. It’s always a relief to see Lavellan home safe and sound after he’s been off playing in the shadows for a night.

When they break apart, Dorian says, “You’ll never guess the rumour I heard today... It seems the Herald of Andraste was spotted in Minrathous last week.”

Lavellan just snorts. “Oh, come on. No he wasn’t.”

“Are you sure, love? Think carefully. Could someone have recognized you? Did you show your face anywhere public?”

“I really don’t think so, honestly,” Lavellan says. “Who told you that?”

“Gallius.”

“Which one is he again...?”

“That irritating ginger contrarian. The one who won’t support any motion unless you convince him that you really, desperately don't want his support.”

“Oh, _him_... What makes you so sure he wasn’t just saying that to get under your skin? Poking at old wounds, or what have you?”

“Well, of course he was trying to get under my skin. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t actually heard the rumour.”

“Like I said: doubtful. But I can lie low for a little while, if you’d prefer.”

“I would appreciate that, darling,” Dorian says. “Why don’t you give Thorn a rest for a few days? And, er, speaking of...” With an outstretched thumb, Dorian wipes some wet black residue from Lavellan's cheek.

“Oh,” Lavellan says, and he snatches a handkerchief from Dorian’s pocket without asking, using it to wipe down his face.

Whenever he’s being Thorn, Lavellan paints on a bold, dark variant of June’s vallaslin, hiding the more subtle lines of his actual tattoos beneath it. It’s an easy way to have a distinctive feature that his other incarnation doesn’t share, should Thorn’s face ever chance to be glimpsed in the darkness. The paint is long-lasting and remarkably water-resistant—Tevinters really don’t half-step when it comes to beauty products. But at the end of the day, it's a real pain in the ass to get back off.

Dorian smiles at Lavellan as his face resurfaces. “Better,” Dorian says, and he kisses Lavellan’s forehead. “All went fine last night, then?"

“Mm-hm,” Lavellan says. “But I have a question for you. Do you know a Magister named Severin?”

Dorian doesn’t ask why. He never asks why—plausible deniability and all that. “Yes, I do. Intelligent fellow. Prickly. Bit of an arsehole.”

“Ally?”

“Of _mine?_ Oh, no. I think he rather sees me as an irritating fly buzzing around his shit castle.”

“Hm,” Lavellan says. “...As in, a castle that’s a bit shit, or a castle that’s made out of shit?”

“Made out of. Hence the fly. Metaphors, pay attention, honestly!”

“Oh, of course.” Lavellan sits all the way up now and folds his arms, looking pensive.

(These days, when he’s home and prosthetic-less, Lavellan folding his arms involves him crossing his right arm across his chest and grasping his left bicep in his hand. A fully unconscious motion. For some reason that he can’t understand, Dorian finds this endlessly adorable.)

“Did you want to have a look at the man?” Dorian asks. “He does hold these excruciating gatherings every so often. Some manner of reoccurring fundraiser disguised as a cocktail party. I always refuse, but I could accept the next one, if you like. And given the number of snakes that will be showing up there...”

“...you may need an able bodyguard with you?”

“Exactly,” Dorian says with a smile. “Do you think Halla might be available?”

They’ve been using this name for months and months now, and even still, Lavellan makes the usual unamused expression when he hears it, to the effect of, _see if I ever forgive you for this_. “Why, of course. At your service, ‘Ser.’”

Dorian hadn’t meant to stick him with that name, exactly. If anything it was an unfortunate consequence of poor planning.

Shortly after Lavellan had arrived to stay in Tevinter for good, there had been a little mix-up: Dorian had forgotten to warn Lavellan that there might be company, and Lavellan had forgotten to confirm with the servants that there definitely wasn’t any. So he had walked into the drawing room in search of Dorian—only to stumble upon Dorian speaking with a twitchy, elderly, not-to-be-particularly-trusted fellow politician.

“Stop!” the old man had commanded, pointing his staff at Lavellan, who had frozen in his tracks. “Who is this? Come to spy on our conversation, have you?”

“Ah!” Dorian said—doing what he usually did in these situations, which was to smoothly, confidently pull something out of his ass. “Back from the market, I see! Did you find everything I asked for?”

“Yes, Lord Pavus,” Lavellan said, trying his best to respectfully avoid eye contact, as most elven servants would do.

Dorian turned back to smile at his fellow Magister, who still had his eyes narrowed, his staff raised. “Sorry about that. This is my servant... Halla.” 

It took all of Lavellan’s willpower not to whip up his head and shoot Dorian the expression on his face, which roughly translated to: _are you fucking serious_

The old man began to lower his staff, though he was still frowning. “Pardon? Is he actually named Halla? Like one of those beasts they herd?”

“Oh, well, not technically,” Dorian said. “It’s just what I like to call him! Much easier than whatever polysyllabic elven nightmare he came with—I can’t even recall what it was now, frankly...” 

“Ah, yes,” the man said, nodding sympathetically. “I know the like. ‘Halla’ is a curious choice, though, isn't it?”

“Elves always remind me of Halla, that’s all... and I quite like the beasts. They’re very majestic. From a distance, anyway. Rather pungent up close, unfortunately.” Dorian leaned in closer to the old man, indicating Lavellan and adding, “He’s also a remarkably fast runner, you see...”

 _Note to self,_ Lavellan thought. _Smack Dorian later._ For now, he simply played his part, staring placidly at the ground as though awaiting further instructions.

“At any rate, this interruption is my fault—I told him to come inform me immediately once he’d located the ingredients I need.” Dorian turned and said, slowly and slightly condescendingly, as though his servant might be a bit thick: “Understood, Halla, thank you! You can place everything in my study, yes?”

“Right away, my lord,” Lavellan said, and he took off.

When Dorian had finally gotten the elderly Magister out of his house and headed upstairs, he found a livid elf sitting on his desk, arms crossed (as best he could cross them). “So my name is _Halla_ , now? Really? Of all things?”

“I’m sorry!” Dorian said, though he was laughing with obvious delight. “I panicked! Suddenly I couldn’t think of a single elven name that isn’t yours...”

“Honestly,” Lavellan said. “Why not just use—”

“No, well, hang on, isn’t it too late now? I think we have to use Halla. That man will remember my story. And continuity is key for a long-term fraudulent scheme, is it not?”

“Oh, please,” Lavellan said. “You’re not serious.”

He was serious. And it had stuck. And Lavellan might never forgive him.

* * *

With Lavellan’s work often extending through the night, it was actually not too common for the two of them to go to sleep together. More often than not, Dorian would fall asleep to a cold, empty bed, then wake up to the relief of Lavellan’s presence. Usually Dorian would be roused around the first ventures of dawn's light by the mattress sloping slightly away from him, and Lavellan’s exhausted grin as he pulled back the blankets and crawled under them.

And then Lavellan would lean in close and whisper, “Good morning, I love you.”

It was the signal that all was well, that Dorian could unconcernedly snuggle up with him and go back to sleep for a few hours more. It was also just a little absurd—Dorian would often chuckle when he heard it. That the elf should stay out all night, breaking laws and stabbing people or whatever else he did, and then come home and whisper a tender thing like this. Practically too ridiculous to bear.

Sometimes Lavellan deviated from the phrase, which generally indicated that the night had been an unexpected success—or disaster, depending. On some occasions, Lavellan might be vibrating with too much adrenaline to fall asleep just yet, and he would get in bed, plant a kiss on Dorian’s face, and say something like, “Have I ever told you that you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen?” 

Dorian would laugh sleepily. “You might’ve mentioned it. But that’s no reason not to do so again.”

On rare occasions, though, Lavellan would be quiet, solemn—even teary-eyed. In the absence of the usual phrase, Dorian would reach out across the pillows, tenderly, questioningly stroking Lavellan’s face. 

“Long night,” he might say wearily. “I’m fine. I love you.” (Or, just once, when things had gone truly pear-shaped: “I’m so glad you’re here.”)

For safety’s sake, Lavellan rarely told Dorian the full details of what he got up to—so on tough nights like this, Dorian would just pull Lavellan in close, asking a few careful questions, then gently rubbing his back until he could fall asleep.

And once in a while, Dorian would wake to the sound of cursing from the bathroom and walk out to find Lavellan sitting on the cold floor, attempting to bind an injury one-handed, with his own blood smeared all over his fingers. “Little help?” Lavellan would ask with a weak grin. And then, once Dorian had fussed over it and chided Lavellan appropriately for his negligence, Lavellan would pull Dorian down for a hug, kiss his rough unshaven morning cheek, and whisper into it, “ _You’re my absolute favourite._ ”

Fortunately, most days would begin with the old standard, across the pillow: “Good morning, I love you.” That phrase was definitely Dorian’s preference, and upon waking to Lavellan’s presence in their bed, he practically held his breath until he heard it.

So the evenings when Lavellan took a break from Thorn and got right in bed with Dorian were an indulgent relief. For those days at least, the likelihood of starting the next day with “good morning, I love you” was pretty much assured, and Dorian slept far more easily for it.

* * *

Lavellan wakes after a full night in their bed to find himself facing Dorian’s back, the broad span of Dorian’s shoulders, moving slightly with the sound of his peaceful breaths.

Propping himself up on his good arm, Lavellan bends over his partner, studying him for the best location to deliver a morning kiss. Where should it be today? Jaw, cheekbone, nose...

And then Lavellan spots something he’s never noticed before: a hint of grey creeping into the hair at Dorian’s temple. Just a few strands, a gentle gradation into a lighter shade, barely noticeable just yet.

Lavellan leans in closer, gazing at this, feeling warm affection flood him, a downright goofy grin spreading across his face.

This is what Lavellan has been granted in Tevinter: the pure, unadulterated privilege of waking with Dorian, day after day, and bearing constant witness to these mundane, insignificant, utterly charming developments. Yet again, he feels unspeakably grateful to have found his way here.

Dorian has a half-conscious impression of Lavellan leaning over him, placing his abbreviated left arm across Dorian’s waist, pressing a kiss to his temple and saying, “Good morning, you’re beautiful.”

Without opening his eyes, Dorian smirks. “You are remarkably syrupy before breakfast.”

Lavellan snuggles in closer from behind, tucking his chin over Dorian’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re my beautiful breakfast pancake.” A pause. “That... made much more sense in my head.”

“I think your head might just frighten me...”

“Now, what does that mean? You don’t want to be my pancake?”

“I’m not even sure what you’re suggesting there... though I fail to see how it could possibly be flattering. Am I flat and doughy, perhaps?”

“What? No! You’re... sweet, and golden, and drizzled in my syrup.”

Dorian laughs with disbelief. “Maker’s breath, now there’s an image...”

“Oh... _ugh_. Elgar’nan, I meant _verbal_ syrup.”

“I heard what you said, you filthy creature.”

“ _I’m_ filthy? You’re the one who took it there.”

“Oh, of course. It’s all my fault. I’m a horrible influence on you, aren’t I?”

“Just the worst,” Lavellan says. “I was nothing but a naive and innocent hunter before I met you...”

Dorian laughs aloud and rolls quickly over, tossing Lavellan onto his back, pinning him there. “Innocent, he says! Nothing but virtue before we met? Tell me, then, who taught you to swiftly murder people from behind? Who taught you to pick the locks to doors that you aren’t meant to open?”

“Hmm?” Lavellan says idly. “What do you mean? I never do that.”

Dorian laughs again, then draws in closer, running a gentle finger across Lavellan’s parting lips, making the elf’s eyes briefly flutter closed. In a lower tone, Dorian asks, “And who taught you to do _that thing_ with your mouth?”

“You mean... talking?” he asks, looking the picture of innocence. “Whistling, perhaps?”

“You know exactly what I mean, you ridiculous man.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Lavellan says. “Suppose you’ll just have to demonstrate.”

“Ha! Don’t you tempt me, Amatus.”

Lavellan shoots him a half-lidded grin, reaching up, fingering the collar of Dorian’s shirt. “Why, but that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“Well, if that’s so...” Dorian says, and then he swoops down for Lavellan’s neck, finding the perfect spot to nibble, while Lavellan laughs and squirms beneath him.

This brand of pointless, circuitous teasing is now part of the regular routine. It’s become practically mundane. And for that luxury, Dorian is endlessly thankful.

* * *

There had been a long period of time when Dorian had refused to believe that Lavellan existing in Minrathous could possibly work. He had spent ages fighting against it, even—but nearly a year into their cohabitation and Lavellan is still here, keeping to their odd routine, and distinctly not scratching at the walls in search of escape. Lavellan even seems happy here—most of the time. Even if Dorian sometimes watches him pad barefoot across cold marble floors and feels a crushing sense of anxiety, like he needs to gather the elf up in his arms and deposit him in a sunny field of grass posthaste.

“Are you really comfortable here?” Dorian had asked him once. “I mean, it doesn’t get much further from your home than Minrathous, does it?”

“I’m Dalish,” Lavellan had said. “We don’t have homes. We have people.”

“Not too many Dalish around here either, I’m afraid. Well, there’s Endriel, at least...”

Lavellan shook his head and took Dorian’s cheek in his hand. “ _You_ are my people, Dorian. That’s more than enough for me.”

Dorian had scoffed at that, although he couldn’t stop himself from blushing a touch, to his utter embarrassment. “What a strange man you are.”

“Well, it’s your fault. You let me in here.”

“Good point. I really should have barred the door...”

Lavellan had just laughed. “Too late!” he had said, and kissed Dorian triumphantly on the chin.

Dorian thinks about this again as he watches Lavellan preparing for this obnoxious gathering at Severin's estate, pulling on some clothes from Halla’s drawer. (Thorn’s clothing is kept separate in a drawer of its own.) Lavellan is unintentionally taking his time, pulling things into place with his one working hand, fiddling with the clasps as best he can—but as frustrating as it can be to watch this slow progress, Dorian resists the urge to go help him. 

Lavellan hates when Dorian tries to help him get dressed. “I’ve got it,” he always snaps. And he will get it. Eventually.

After a few minutes, Lavellan notices that Dorian is watching him with a distant expression. “All right?”

“Not really,” Dorian says. “This party hasn’t even started and I’m already entirely regretting it.”

Lavellan chuckles. “Come, now. Don’t tell me you’re getting too old for parties.”

“How dare you? You know very well that I don’t age.”

“Right. Pardon me.”

“And it’s not parties, in concept. Parties are neutral. Parties are only as good as their attendees, and these ones... Truly some of the most insufferable party-goers in Minrathous. I mean, I may tell you I enjoy eating a delicious trifle, but not if the layers are made up of sour cream and old shoes.”

“Ugh,” Lavellan says. “You know, I think I tried that in Orlais once...”

Dorian laughs aloud. “Oh, they would! _Bol de fête horrible_ , I believe it’s called.”

“Whatever you just said, I’m sure it was incredibly clever,” Lavellan says, at last doing up the final clasp to his coat. “Right. Now come here and give me a kiss before I commence pretending that you’re my respectable superior.”

“ _Pretending?_ Well, I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“Shut your mouth,” Lavellan says, and he grabs Dorian by the collar, pulling him in.

There’s always a moment, in the brief space after Lavellan kisses him, where Dorian feels his chest ache—a split second where he runs the risk of saying something embarrassing before he pulls himself back together. Right now, he just tweaks Lavellan’s chin and says, “We will need to be careful, darling. There will be some legitimate threats at this dull affair.”

“I know that, Dorian. It’s Tevinter. I understand.”

Dorian smirks a bit. “You know, it’s really inspiring to watch how fast you’ve learned our ways.”

Lavellan laughs. “What ‘ways’? Everyone wants to murder everyone else, in a more flashy and impressive fashion than the last person who murdered someone in public. That’s about the whole of it, isn’t it?”

“Exactly,” Dorian says. “You’ve clearly mastered it. Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey we're back! Where is this all headed? Plot-wards, I promise!
> 
> Next: A disaster-free party in Minrathous? Not a thing, I'm afraid.


	2. Abhorrent Conversations with Tevinter's Finest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody parties quite like a bunch of pretentious old Magisters. Am I right guys???
> 
> (This chapter makes very brief reference to some events from [chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9505646/chapters/21959462) of A Measure of Distance.)

Lavellan spends the journey to Severin’s estate preparing himself to inhabit Halla.

Halla doesn’t smile. Halla doesn’t laugh or exchange glances with Dorian when another Magister says something absurd. No, Halla just keeps his hood up, carefully moves his prosthetic arm as if it’s a natural arm, and has a grim and businesslike demeanour at all times. Nothing that could possibly attract any attention.

Not that the latter directive is particularly difficult here. Lavellan is far from the only elf at this party; the place is rife with elven servants. Across the spacious marble ballroom at Severin’s estate, elves appear to be everywhere—huddled in the orbit of their masters, like anxious moons drifting around the room. It’s still incredible to Lavellan how the higher classes of Tevinter have fine-tuned their eyes to only register the faces of people with the requisite social standing to speak to them.

Incredible and useful, as far as Lavellan’s concerned. With his hood up, trailing behind Dorian, he is hidden beneath the same fog of unimportance as every other servant in this room.

Dorian also undergoes a transformation in places like this, but it’s an entirely different one. As soon as he steps through the doors to the polished expanse of ornate columns and unpleasant statues that is Severin’s ballroom, Dorian immediately becomes Magister Pavus. 

Magister Pavus is impervious to feelings. He glides through the room like a magnificent swan who is poised to effortlessly deflect any stinging barbs that come his way, to laugh at every poorly conceived joke that he is forced to endure, and to gracefully accept as many glasses of wine as it will take to keep that impenetrable smile plastered across his face.

“Don’t mind if I do!” he says brightly when a servant offers him his first glass, and then he downs it in a single gulp.

“Easy,” Lavellan says quietly.

“I shall request your counsel if I require it, Halla,” Dorian says. “Until then…” He plunks his empty glass on the servant’s tray, then gratefully takes another one.

“I look forward to carrying you home, then, Ser.”

“That’s quite enough of your lip,” Dorian says—though he fortunately commences sipping this second glass with more appropriate restraint.

Lavellan suppresses a smirk and says, “I humbly beg your pardon, my lord.”

“Ha. That will be the day.” Dorian edges in close to Lavellan’s side, raises the wine glass to his lips, then whispers, laterally, “That’s Severin there. Up at the front.”

They are standing just now in a shadowed alcove by the main door, offering them a good vantage point across the ballroom, which is teeming with well-dressed, professionally disinterested members of Tevinter’s upper classes. Through the mingling crowd, at the head of the room, Lavellan spots the man in question. Severin is a tall, slim, wizened old Magister who looks like no detail escapes him. His robes are immaculately crisp, and he is studying each person who flits by him with a careful, penetrating gaze.

“You say he holds these events often?” Lavellan whispers. 

“He does. He’s been a widower for years—no children, either. So it seems raising unnecessary funds for the preservation of historical architecture in Minrathous is what he has chosen to fill the void.”

“Not the worst thing to devote yourself to.”

“No, I can certainly think of worse. Though why he’s more concerned about the shambles of our largely decorative buildings than the shambles of our legislative process, I’ll never know… At any rate! Shall we try to talk to him?”

With Lavellan hanging dutifully behind Dorian, they venture into the vulnerable open of the ballroom—where they are quickly halted by a squat, watery-eyed older man: “Well, well, if it isn’t the newer Pavus! What’s that _thing_ trailing you there? I thought you didn’t keep slaves. Isn’t that your very principled stance on the matter?”

“Valris!” Dorian exclaims, in that artificially delighted tone that Lavellan knows Dorian saves for people he really, really doesn’t want to talk to. “That’s right, I don’t keep slaves. This man is a paid worker, as all my servants are.”

Valris says, “Tch. ‘Paid worker.’ Is that the politically correct term these days? This new generation, I swear…”

“You know,” Dorian says, as if offering a helpful life tip, “you’d be surprised what loyalty your workers show you when you give them a choice.”

“A _choice!_ And when your life is at stake? Are you honestly telling me you’d like them to have a ‘choice’ of whether to serve you in that situation?”

“It hasn’t been a concern thus far,” Dorian says. “This lot is exceptionally incapable of murdering me.”

“Hmm. Well, that’s a fair enough point. I do recall that one attempt, at that wretched mid-session ball—who was it, again? Romian? With that ridiculously sloppy lightning bolt…”

Dorian’s face lights up. “Oh, yes, yes! When his spell misfired off my barrier and hit the chandelier…?”

“Which collapsed the ceiling,” Valris says, and both of them are now laughing heartily, “and brought it down on the dessert cart!” 

“What a disaster that was,” Dorian says. “The flan was completely destroyed.”

“What an imbecile,” Valris says. “You know, somehow I find myself hoping there’s another attempt on your life tonight, if only to keep things interesting.”

“For everyone’s sake,” Dorian says, “let’s hope it’s after dessert.”

Valris laughs again, shakes Dorian’s hand, and then strides off to speak with someone else. Dorian smiles mildly, then, almost imperceptibly, wipes his hand on his robe.

In any normal circumstances, Lavellan might be able to use context clues to figure out their political relationship to each other—the largely friendly tone? The evident undercurrent of disgust? But in Tevinter politics, these don’t tell him much of anything at all.

“Ally?” Lavellan asks under his breath.

“Opponent,” Dorian whispers back. “And a reprehensible ass.”

Halla does not snort—but Lavellan comes very close. “Good to know.”

* * *

They make it just a few more steps toward Severin when another interruption finds them. “Oh, _Dorian!_ ” it comes, in a singsong voice.

Dorian freezes with considerable horror. It’s a kind of fear Lavellan rarely sees him display, generally reserved for truly mortal threats. Lavellan is instantly on his guard, and he studies the man approaching them: tall, tanned, perfectly groomed—striking, really…

“Regulus,” Dorian says, decidedly terse. “How long has it been?”

“Ages, I should think! I haven’t seen the barest inch of you since you scampered off to the south to play barbaric war games, or whatever it was you were after. Utterly thoughtless of you, pet. I can think of several dreadful occasions when I might gladly have had you as a diversion. Say, do you remember that spring soirée when we—”

“ _Yes, yes,_ ” Dorian cuts in, downright panicked. “Of course—but, come now, this is hardly an occasion for nostalgia, is it…”

By now it’s all perfectly clear. Lavellan thinks, _Sweet fancy Mythal._

(Halla simply looks on impassively, seeming not to judge.)

Regulus appears to be perturbed as well. “Dorian Pavus, please don’t tell me all that time among those southern bumpkins has turned you into a prude. That would be _such_ a disappointment.”

“Not quite. I’ve simply… made some other commitments in the meantime.”

“Surely you aren’t referring to your notorious dalliance with that prophet of the yokels? The man has been dead for ages by now, hasn’t he? Best not to dwell _too_ long, darling, it’s unseemly.”

“What can I say,” Dorian says. “His example has proven rather difficult to match.”

Incongruously, Lavellan thinks, _Aw._

“So difficult?” Regulus asks, quirking a brow. “Well, now you’ve made me curious. What is it like, then, bedding a properly touched prophet? Unhinged fanatic in the sheets as well?”

Dorian opens his mouth and shuts it again. How to answer this without earning the ire of his lover, currently standing a mere two feet away? Would ‘yes’ be insulting? Would ‘no’ be even worse? He settles for, “Oh… You couldn’t possibly imagine.”

“Hmmm, how intriguing… But he was one of those feral elven nomads, was he not? Was hygiene not an issue, then?”

Dorian feels his brow twitch. “He was perfectly clean, thank you.”

This might well be the first time Dorian has ever commended Lavellan’s hygiene. Lavellan makes a mental note to bring this up endlessly later.

“Oh?” Regulus says. “Well, I suppose his human handlers must have made sure of that.”

Dorian’s irritation is becoming audible now: “No, and he did not _have_ ‘handlers’—he was perfectly capable of keeping himself clean. The Dalish actually have—”

“Yes, yes,” Regulus says. “But back to the matter at hand: it must have been quite an experience to bed such a wild creature… Just what sorts of filthy kinks did he get you into that have so ruined you for other men? I imagine they must be quite shocking. I mean, don’t his kind drink human blood and such?”

“They absolutely do not.”

“All right, be coy, then,” Regulus says, winking, tapping his nose. “But, now, this you really must tell me: what about that odd mark? That ‘anchor,’ or whatever you call it? Did _that_ ever come into play?”

“What does that mean? How could it possibly come into play?”

“Come now. You’re not telling me he never…” Regulus performs a lewd gesture with his hand. “…using the anchor?”

Dorian blinks at him for a moment. “And… what, exactly, do you expect would have happened if he did?”

Regulus shrugs and says, “Magical enhancement? Pleasurable sensations of the Fade? Physical penetration of the Veil?”

There is a long, long moment of Dorian just gazing irascibly at Regulus. And then he says, “No. I did not ‘penetrate the Veil.’”

Halla is definitely not stifling laughter. 

“Never? How dreadfully dull,” Regulus says. “And yet he’s still so memorable? Is it possible you were starved for company down there in the cold and the muck? Yes, I daresay that’s it—you’ve simply forgotten what truly refined entertainments are like. I have _just_ the way to remind you—”

“No, thank you. I’m afraid I have other interests to attend to this evening.”

Regulus looks distinctly pouty, and he moves in closer, trailing a finger down Dorian’s chest. “Don’t be such a bore. Come, let’s do it somewhere painfully obvious. It will be such delicious revenge on my shrew of a wife.”

Dorian chuckles and says, “Now, now. You and I both know she’ll be too busy pursuing her own pleasures to notice.”

Regulus winds his fingers into the fabric of Dorian’s clothing, then attempts to tug him suggestively closer—Dorian refuses to be moved, however. “Not if we leave a great deal of evidence.” 

Halla is expending a supernatural amount of effort on keeping his eyebrows where they are.

“No time this evening, I’m afraid,” Dorian says. “I would suggest you find someone else.”

Regulus sighs and steps back again. “How disappointing. How utterly disappointing. You, of all people, a regular stick-in-the-mud! Well, I suppose it’s true what they say about getting _incredibly old_.”

And then Regulus spins around and saunters away, leaving Dorian silently fuming with stifled offense.

“We are the _same age_ ,” Dorian mutters under his breath.

There is a bit of a pause as Dorian breathes through his spike of anger and slowly realizes the more pressing issue, which is that Lavellan is still standing behind him, having heard every last word of this mortifying exchange. Though all he wants right now is a double refill on his wine, Dorian forces himself to shamefacedly turn around, bracing himself for whatever withering look must be on Lavellan’s face. 

For the moment, Lavellan is just gazing at him from under his hood, his expression utterly blank. And then he says, in Halla’s measured tone: “You look incredibly youthful to me, Lord Pavus.”

Dorian sighs—with exasperation or relief, he’s not entirely sure. “Why, thank you, Halla. I do believe I might give you a raise.”

* * *

The next obstacle on the way to Severin is a woman who approaches Dorian with a very specific opinion about the legalities of a very specific type of magic that Lavellan barely understands.

This begins a circuitous argument about political policy and historical precedent that Lavellan is fairly certain will last until the very end of time.

“But surely it’s a slippery slope, Pavus,” the woman says. “If we castrate the potentialities of magic for fear of a few bad apples—”

“But you can’t simply ignore nuance for the sake of ease. Just think of the implications if somewhere were to—”

Lavellan gradually tunes them out, taking the time to scan the ballroom, to see if he can spot that brown-haired servant with the daughter who Thorn has promised to help. Instead, what he finds among the crowd is a figure who is clearly casing Dorian.

Of course. If you wanted to spectacularly murder someone at this party, you would choose to murder the most brilliant man in the room. Why wouldn’t you?

She’s a slight human woman, dressed as a servant, but moving far too slowly and deliberately to be up to anything good. She also has a hand hidden in her coat. Some kind of weapon, undoubtedly.

When in Tevinter, one can never be sure of who might be a mage. This would seem an obstacle to a non-mage like Lavellan, but he’s worked out a few loopholes. 

Namely: mages can’t cast spells if they can’t breathe.

Lavellan lifts his elbow, bumping it gently against Dorian’s spine. Dorian doesn’t even slow his speech, but he knows what this means. It should put him on the alert.

Then Lavellan watches the prowling woman out of the corner of his eye. He knows never to look directly at them—it makes them vanish, only to try again when he’s less aware. So he lets the woman near, even though every second of allowing her to eye Dorian’s weak points makes Lavellan burn with anger. 

Finally, she makes her move, ghosting ahead with a leap—and Lavellan throws his body in the way, lashing out prosthetic-first, catching her off balance and knocking her against the nearest pillar. Lavellan advances to slam his metal forearm across the woman’s windpipe, cutting off her oxygen. Then he unsheathes a dagger with his right hand and points it in the woman’s face, snarling with all of his teeth.

The woman wheezes something unintelligible.

The partygoers around them are glancing with mild interest at this altercation. Just as the woman is beginning to struggle in earnest against the superhuman weight of Lavellan’s prosthetic arm, there is a familiar flash of purple across her face as Dorian sends her straight into tormented sleep. Lavellan eases off the woman’s throat, allowing her to slide slowly down the pillar and into an unconscious heap on the ground.

Dorian strolls casually up next to them, studies the prone woman, then sweeps around and casts a critical eye across the spectators. “Was that some sort of joke?” he asks. “Whoever sent this, I am returning it. Kindly try harder next time.”

“Nicely dispatched!” Valris says, emerging from the crowd again. “I was hoping for something flashier, but I can’t argue with results…”

Dorian’s shoulders slump back. “Ugh. Valris? When you said you hoped someone tried to assassinate me, I didn’t think you meant you’d be doing it yourself.”

“Well, no one else seemed to be doing it… No offense intended, Pavus. Just trying to keep this party interesting.”

 _This fucking country,_ Lavellan thinks. 

“At any rate,” Valris says, “you may have proven your point. It seems your help there doesn’t shy away from protecting you.”

“You see?” Dorian says. “High morale does wonders.”

 _Though it certainly doesn’t hurt if said ‘help’ is desperately in love with you,_ Lavellan thinks.

“Who’s this you’ve roped into your game?” Dorian asks, gesturing at the woman currently unconscious on the ground.

“One of my… ‘unpaid workers,’” Valris says, elbowing Dorian in the ribs as he says this, chuckling as if he’s just told a delightful joke.

“That seems like an unnecessary risk,” Dorian says. “What if we’d killed her?”

“Pah. A bleeding-heart liberal like you? I knew you wouldn’t,” Valris says. “Now, wake her and I’ll call her off, I promise. All in good fun.”

“Such fun,” Dorian says dryly, and with a lazy gesture he lifts the enchantment from the woman, who gets groggily, shakily to her feet.

“You’ve failed your task,” Valris tells her. “Now run along and find me some gin.”

Without a word, she disappears. And Lavellan makes a mental note: _Valris, hm? Perhaps I’ll need to dig into your dirty laundry next._

* * *

At long last, Dorian manages to ford his way to the head of the crowd, where Severin takes stock of him, sweeping an analytical gaze up and down the entirety of Dorian’s person. 

“Pavus,” Severin says. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see you attending. I wasn’t aware you were interested in my cause.”

“But of course I am!” Dorian says. “The visible marvels of our past are some of the finest things about this country. It’s such a shame to see them in shambles.”

“Hmm,” Severin says approvingly. “Good of you to lay aside politics for a worthy cause.” 

“Why, there’s nothing partisan about preserving our history.”

“Yes. Quite. Shame more of your fellows in that little group of yours don’t see it the same way.” 

“Well, not all of them appreciate the idea of paying to suffer assassination attempts,” Dorian says with an easy smile. “I suppose I just like to live dangerously.”

Severin looks uncomprehending for a moment. “Oh… that scuffle earlier? Was that you they were after? I apologize about that. You know what this lot is like. One too many snifters of brandy and they think they’re masterminds, plotting the deaths of everyone who looks at them sideways…”

“Of course. No harm done.”

“Who was it who caused the fuss?”

Dorian waves a dismissive hand. “Far be it from me to start naming names! It was a triviality, anyway, not a wholehearted attempt on my life. The man simply thought he was having a laugh.”

Severin sighs with exasperation. “Valris. I must stop inviting him to these events.”

“You know he’d find his way in anyway,” Dorian says. “The man simply can’t resist a buffet.” At that, Severin chuckles.

(Lavellan has only been living in Tevinter for ten months now, but one thing he’s learned for absolute certain: when it comes to making nice with one’s fellow Magisters, there is no more reliable strategy than talking petty shit about your colleagues.)

“I suppose it’s unfair of me to generalize about your fellows,” Severin says. “Tilani is here as well, after all.”

Dorian genuinely brightens up. “Is she really?”

“Yes, yes. Just there,” Severin says, gesturing across the ballroom—and then he holds out his hand. “Well, more people to greet. I must get back to it. Do give generously this evening, won’t you?”

“I certainly intend to,” Dorian lies, shaking Severin’s hand with a big smile.

They depart from Severin, and then with clear enthusiasm Dorian leads Lavellan across to the other end of the ballroom—where they find Maevaris, drink in hand. She turns with a winning smile on Dorian’s approach.

“Well, well!” Maevaris says, and they embrace each other, kissing each other’s cheeks. “I was wondering when you would finally deign to come say hello.”

“I didn’t even know you were here!” Dorian says. “To be quite frank, Mae, I’m disappointed. I thought you actually had taste.”

“I could say the same to you, sweetheart. There are about ten objectionable holes I would expect to find you in before this one.”

“It’s not my first choice of hole, I’ll admit… I’m just here on a bit of a favour. You?”

“Making an appearance for the sake of being able to say I made an appearance. Can’t stay long, I’m afraid. Or, I suppose I could, but I categorically refuse. However…” Maevaris glances at the nearest clock. “I’m thrilled to have found a friendly face for the last fifteen minutes of this torture.”

“Leaving so soon? You traitor. Here I thought I might actually enjoy myself this evening.”

“You ought to be grateful I’m here at all, Dorian! Just enjoy me while you can.” Maevaris lowers her voice for the next question—although the words are still said with a casual air that would only make logical sense in Tevinter: “Someone’s tried to kill you, I hear?”

Dorian shrugs airily. “Only a trifle.”

“No nullification effects?”

“No, no. This was just Valris pulling down his trousers. I doubt it had anything to do with our mysterious league of assassins.”

“Well, that’s a shame. I was hoping we might actually gain something useful from this occasion,” Maevaris says. “Listen, though, so long as we’re discussing our little problem: I read your latest notes—brilliant, by the way—and they’ve given me an idea. We should discuss it somewhere less slippery.”

“Come by mine, then, if you can.”

“Next week, perhaps,” she says, and then she pauses, her brow furrows.

She is looking straight at Lavellan. And it suddenly occurs to Dorian: Maevaris _knows_ Lavellan. She has met him before—after the Exalted Council, during a visit—before Lavellan sent his former identity up in smoke and came to Tevinter for good. Just briefly, but they have met.

Lavellan is shorter than most people, and his hood is drawn, so it’s not too easy for passersby to catch his face even here in the open of the ballroom. His height is actually an advantage in many ways: the Inquisitor is rarely described, in any account, as short. Too anticlimactic. The farther from the source the tales of the Inquisition travel, the taller he becomes, until he transforms into some kind of strapping, muscular willow tree of an elf.

So one would not see a diminutive figure standing behind Dorian and immediately think “Inquisitor.” But Maevaris has met the Inquisitor. She has looked him in the eye. She knows exactly how little he is.

Maevaris stares at Lavellan for a moment. Lavellan stares blankly back at her—then smiles and shrugs.

And then she laughs aloud. “Oh, Dorian, I do love you. You’re so shameless.”

“I have no idea what you could possibly mean by that,” Dorian says.

“Why should I be referring to anything specific? It’s just generally the case.” Maevaris lifts her empty wine glass. “Now, might your servant there be able to relieve me of this?”

Before Dorian can answer, she’s stepped around him, taking Lavellan by the left forearm, giving it a probing squeeze, while passing the glass into his right hand. “Would you take this for me? Thank you kindly. Oh, what muscles you have under there! Like solid steel.”

“Mae,” Dorian says quietly, warningly—a little desperately. Lavellan clears his throat, takes the glass, and says nothing.

“Dorian,” Maevaris asks idly, “have I ever told anyone what you did at the Qarinus Academy’s Winter Centennial?”

Lavellan has no clue what this means, but Dorian goes unusually flush at that. “Not that I’m aware of…”

“Exactly,” Maevaris says, and she kisses his cheek. “I’ll be off, then. Take care, darling!”

In Maevaris’s wake, Lavellan and Dorian exchange a glance. 

“Something else to navigate, eh, Halla?” Dorian asks wearily.

“We’ll manage it,” Lavellan says. And then, over Dorian’s shoulder, Lavellan catches sight of her—the brown-haired servant from the other day. “May I take your glass as well, Ser?”

Dorian looks confused, but he obediently hands over his empty glass—which Lavellan somehow wrangles into the fingers of his good hand, alongside the glass Maevaris gave him. And then Lavellan strides off to helpfully dispose of them, like a good servant might.

But rather than do so instantly, he trails the brown-haired woman to see where she heads off to. She collects a tray of dirty dishes, then ducks into a side door, heading down a long hallway that Lavellan assumes—by the stream of servants coming in and out with food and glasses—must lead to a kitchen.

Lavellan makes a mental note of this, then plops the two glasses behind the nearest pillar and heads straight back to Dorian.

In the single minute that has passed, Dorian has found himself a new glass of wine, and he gestures at Lavellan with it. “Halla, I require a word—come with me,” Dorian says briskly, and then he sweeps out into the nearest hallway. 

Lavellan trails him hurriedly around the corner and into a private alcove, which they share with a hideous leering statue. “What’s—” And then there’s a wine glass in his face.

“Try this,” Dorian says.

Lavellan raises his brows. Keeping his voice to the barest whisper, he says, “I really shouldn’t—”

“Quick, quick!” Dorian says.

Lavellan hesitates, then takes the glass and tips back an obedient mouthful.

It’s smooth, delicate—lovely, really. No doubt about it, this is an incredible glass of wine. It’s also vaguely familiar. Lavellan’s eyebrows go up, and as he hands the glass back he asks, “What is…?”

“‘Rowan's Rose,’” Dorian says with a smile. “The Hinterlands. Remember?”

Lavellan remembers all right. It was one of the first bottles they’d stolen together—in this case, from that odd religious cult in the hills. By way of justification, Lavellan had said: “Well, they clearly don’t need this. They’re already drunk on Andraste.” 

That stupid line had made Dorian laugh—one loud, clear bark of a laugh, the type that comes out whenever Dorian is caught off guard. The two of them had been nothing more than ‘friends’ at that point, but Lavellan had felt that laugh deep in the hollow of his chest. He’d thought about it for days. And when he and Dorian had shared the bottle by the campfire that night, he’d gazed a little too intently at Dorian’s face and silently wished for him to laugh like that again.

“Yes, I remember,” Lavellan says.

“It tastes even better when it hasn’t been baking in a dusty keep, don’t you think?”

“Mm. It’s very good. Is that…?”

“Right, yes, that’s all. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of you not getting a taste.”

“Dorian,” Lavellan chides under his breath, although he’s trying not to grin. “Are you really telling me you’d risk scandal just to—”

“Well, it’s an excellent vintage.”

“…Yes,” Lavellan says, and he’s most definitely grinning now. “Quite. My apologies, Lord Pavus. I will not question you again.”

“See that you don’t, Halla,” Dorian says with a contemptuous sniff, and then he wheels back for the ballroom. “Come along!”

They round the corner—and right into the sights of an approaching figure. Both of them recoil in surprise, but to their luck, it’s only Maevaris. She raises her brows and shoots them a knowing smile. “There you are.”

“Oh!” Dorian says. “Back so soon? I should’ve known you couldn’t resist my company.”

“You’re not my type, sweetheart,” Maevaris says, and she takes him by the arm and leads him right back into the privacy of the alcove, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Just a slight problem for you. It seems every servant who’s exiting this ghastly affair is being subjected to a thorough search.”

Dorian stiffens up considerably. “What? Why?”

“Curach,” she says, with a bit of an eye-roll. “He’s lost an important ring, apparently. A servant absolutely stole it, he says. Severin is having everyone searched just to appease the dramatic old prig.”

“Oh, pish. He probably hasn’t even brought the ring in question—if it exists at all.”

“Naturally,” Maevaris says. “The real question is whether he truly believes he’s lost it or whether he’s just actively trying to cause a scene.”

“Ah, yes. Senile or attention-seeking? It’s so hard to know with this lot…”

Maevaris and Dorian turn to Lavellan, then, who is standing there with his right arm folded across his chest, taking this all in. “What are you thinking?” Dorian asks softly.

“Not great,” Lavellan says.

“Could you get through? Will this be too much of a risk?”

“They’ll see his arm, Dorian,” Maevaris whispers. “Curach may fail to put the pieces together, but someone else surely will.”

“Fuck,” Dorian says, kneading his brow. 

Lavellan is sure Dorian didn’t previously say unthinking ‘fuck’s in situations like this. He is convinced this development is his bad influence. For some reason, this makes Lavellan grin with delight.

“Oh, what?” Dorian says. “Please, not that face. That face is never good.”

“Don’t worry,” Lavellan says quietly. “I’ll find another way. Could be a good opportunity.”

Lavellan doesn’t add ‘to find a way back in,’ but Dorian hears it loud and clear. He frowns with displeasure. “That will be dangerous, love.”

“Shh,” Lavellan says at the use of that pet name. “We’ll split up. You leave without me.”

“Won’t suddenly losing my servant look incredibly suspicious?”

“You can leave with me, Dorian,” Maevaris says. “I brought a few servants along. We’ll just blend together, no one will be bothering with servant maths—and we can see you safely home, as well. It’ll be just fine.”

“There you go,” Lavellan says. “You’re tired of this party anyway, aren’t you?”

“And what about you?”

Lavellan shrugs. “I have some ideas.”

“Oh, good,” Dorian says. “Ideas. Those never end poorly.”

Lavellan smirks, leans a bit closer, and says, as softly as possible: “Don’t wait up, love.”

“Oh, for—”

Dorian is kept in place only by Maevaris’s death grip on his arm as Lavellan parts from them and instantly melts into the shadows of the hallway.

“Why, you’re so tense, you poor thing,” Maevaris laughs. Then, more quietly, “He’ll be fine, I’m sure. Vanishing without so much as a trace is rather his forte, or so it would seem.”

“Hush, please,” Dorian says. “Best if we don’t discuss that here.”

“If you insist. Though, be advised that I shall have many questions for you in private. And you can expect to be _thoroughly berated_ for not telling me sooner. I mean, honestly! What incredible gossip to keep all to yourself!”

“Yes, yes, all right… So long as we get out of this cesspool sooner rather than later.”

“An excellent idea,” Maevaris says, and she leads Dorian back into the ballroom, beckoning her servants to her side. “Athen, would you kindly put up your hood and stay close to this handsome man here? There’s a lamb…”

As Maevaris waves her goodbyes and throws pleasantries out to other guests as they pass, Dorian’s mind is going a mile a minute. He definitely, officially knows too much at this point. He is all but certain that Lavellan is going to attempt to break back in here on another occasion—for what exact purpose, he’s not sure. But this knowledge has him eyeing the place’s defenses, wondering about the strength of the wards.

He’s had a million demonstrations of why he shouldn’t underestimate his partner—and yet, all it takes is a single ounce of peril and Dorian is back to fretting like a mother hen. How is a one-armed, magicless little elf meant to overcome a powerful Magister’s defenses?

At the ballroom’s exit a panicked and indignant Curach watches, barking orders, as Severin’s people search the coats and pockets of Maevaris’s servants. Severin is standing at the side, looking nothing more than impatient. Dorian hesitates, then sidles over to him. “Bit of a to-do here, hmm?”

“I apologize,” Severin says. “Curach is quite upset by all this. It seems nothing else will set his mind at ease.”

“No apologies needed, I understand,” Dorian says. He pauses, trying to think of how to innocuously bring up the subject that is currently squeezing him with anxiety. “But, er, tell me—if there is a culprit to be found here, what if they’ve slipped out another way? Through the back, perhaps? Could that not be possible?”

Severin raises a brow and says, “Yes— _if_ there is a culprit,” in a low, exasperated tone that Curach doesn’t catch. Dorian smirks back. “I doubt a single ring is worth the risk to any servant. No doubt they’ll abandon the thing somewhere in the ballroom rather than be caught with it. My people will turn it up tomorrow.”

“True! And I expect your wards at the other exits are incredibly thorough.”

“Mm,” Severin says simply.

That’s not much to go on. Dorian ventures on with a sentence that he pulls straight out of his ass: “You are an expert in that field, if I recall? Wards and such?” 

“Well, I’m proficient enough, I suppose.”

“Why, that’s not what I’ve heard. They say you’re a master. Haven’t you been working on that one brilliant ward with some kind of invisible static discharge…?”

Severin has raised a brow. “I think you must be confusing me with someone else.”

“Oh?” Dorian says, feigning complete puzzlement. “But there was something defensive you’ve been working on lately that is quite revolutionary, is there not? I could have sworn…”

“You are thinking of my facility with curses, perhaps.”

“Of course!” Dorian says. “That was it. Curses applied...” He looks at Severin expectantly.

“Applied to objects, yes,” Severin fortunately says, as if Dorian had any idea where his own sentence was going. “I am working with various curses and debilitating effects, making them increasingly malleable and applicable to inanimate objects. It’s quite a fascinating field.”

“Ah, yes, of course, I do remember now. I would love to hear more about that.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

 _Damn._ Dorian hesitates again, then says, “Well, if cursed objects are your forte, I can imagine why you’re not worried about anyone escaping through the back of your home, yes? You must have some awfully clever defenses in place.”

Severin half-smirks. “I have my methods.”

 _Yes,_ Dorian thinks. _That must be it, then._

“Er—Dorian, sweetheart?” Maevaris calls. She is giving him a look of warning, to the effect of _what the fuck are you doing over there?_ “It seems they’re done looking over our servants. Shall we go, then?”

* * *

Lavellan idles in the shadows of the hall to Severin’s kitchen until he catches the brown-haired servant lugging a tray full of dirty dishes. 

As she nears Lavellan’s hiding spot, another elf hurries by from the kitchen, ferrying a tray of clean glasses. “Will you bring more plates, Nola?”

“All right,” she says.

Lavellan waits until her fellow servant disappears around a corner, and then he steps straight into her path. Nola stops short, her dishes rattling and clinking, her face openly afraid.

He can’t say ‘Thorn.’ He’s not currently being Thorn. So then what? Lavellan musters, “Friend of Thorn’s?”

Nola’s eyes widen considerably.

“Not now,” Lavellan says, waving a hand. “Not today. Just need to talk.”

She looks over both her shoulders, then hitches up her tray of dishes and whispers, “Come on.” Nola leads Lavellan a few more paces down the hallway, then gestures at a doorway with her head.

Lavellan opens it for her—it’s a tiny little broom closet. After one more glance at her, he packs himself right in, with Nola squeezing in after him, the tray of dishes wedging in between their stomachs. Once they’re both safely tucked inside, Lavellan pulls the door shut, closing them into the dark.

“What can I tell you?” Nola asks quietly.

“I need a safe way in and out of here,” Lavellan whispers. “Unseen. Could you show me one?”

“And then you’ll tell him…?”

“Yes.”

“When will he come?”

“When he can.”

Nola shakes her head. “Two days from now. Late evening.”

 _That’s not how this works, lady,_ Lavellan wants to say. “I can’t promise you that.”

“Please. You must tell him, it’s the only safe time.”

“Thorn doesn’t like setting times. The chances of being discovered—”

“I won’t tell a soul. Please.” She leans in closer, making her voice even quieter: “Severin will be gone that evening, and the halls will be quiet. It’s the only time I can safely bring my daughter.”

Lavellan is sensing that something is off here. “Why is that such an obstacle? Who is watching her aside from you?”

“Other servants. She is kept carefully.”

“But why?”

Nola pauses regretfully. “My master finds her to be… important.”

“And why would that be?”

“I don’t know, Ser. But whatever he plans with her… please, she’s only a baby. He’s already taken her from me, I’m hardly allowed to see her. I need help, please….”

“All right, shhh,” Lavellan says. “I’ll get word to Thorn, then.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, although Lavellan notices her studying him more carefully now. “Are you and he… brothers? You look…”

“Not brothers, no,” Lavellan says hastily. “Though, er… I have heard that we look similar. I’ve never actually met him myself.”

“Oh, no? You really do look alike,” Nola says. 

“Sure,” Lavellan says. “Now. You had an exit to show me?”

Nola looks around and whispers, “Yes. Go upstairs and hide by the library, I’ll meet you there when I can. Make sure not to touch any windows, they’re not safe. But I can show you a way through…”

* * *

When Lavellan casually saunters into the front hall of his and Dorian’s home later that evening, Endriel is there to cheerfully greet him. “Andaran vhenas!”

“Aneth ara,” Lavellan says, fondly patting the younger elf’s back. “Did Dorian make it home all right?”

“Yes he did, Lethallin. I believe he’s currently pacing circles upstairs.”

“Pfft… figures,” Lavellan says, and he heads up to see for himself.

Lavellan knows just where to step on the stairs to avoid any unnecessary squeaks—and he keeps his hand braced on the railing, so he can make his way up with the lightest of touches from his feet. Then he creeps down the hallway, flat to the wall, avoiding that one creaking board, and attempts to glide around the doorframe, to silently peer into their bedroom…

Only to come face-to-face with Dorian, who is quite literally standing in the doorway, arms folded, looking horrifically unimpressed. “I _knew_ you would try that, you bastard.” 

Lavellan laughs aloud. “You ruined it!” Then he plants his hand on Dorian’s chest and forcibly directs him back toward the nearest chair, for the sole purpose of being able to hop into Dorian’s lap and kiss him on the nose. “I told you I’d be a while… You didn’t really worry, did you?”

“Ha! Now, that was a nice time. The time when I didn’t have to worry about you constantly. When was that? Eight _thousand_ years ago?”

“Something like that,” Lavellan says mildly. “Did you have trouble getting out of there?”

“Not a bit. And you, dare I ask?”

“Not a bit. Thank you for bringing me, love, it was an incredible help.”

“I don’t want to know, I don’t think,” Dorian says. “Er… but listen. Should you wind up sneaking back in there…”

“Dorian. You’ve just said you don’t want to know.”

“Yes, but this is important. You must be careful not to… touch anything. Severin has—”

“Yes, I know that already. It’s fine.”

“Do you actually know? Only—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Lavellan says firmly. “I’ve already made you into enough of an accessory to all this. Don’t start offering me advice on it as well.”

Dorian sighs. “If you insist.”

“I really do appreciate that you took me,” Lavellan says. “I know it wasn’t particularly pleasant for you.”

“Well, I did get my fair share of fancy wine, so I can’t complain too much.” Dorian fondly strokes Lavellan’s hair back and says, “Still! My word, what I wouldn’t give to walk into a party like that with you properly on my arm, instead of hidden behind me.”

Lavellan cocks a brow. “Hang on, why am I on your arm? I thought you were supposed to be on mine.”

“First of all, I’m taller than you.”

“So?”

“Optics, that’s what. _Visual balance._ ” Dorian ignores Lavellan’s eye-roll and continues, “Second of all, you only have the one arm. You can’t have me on it. You’ll need it for drinks.”

Lavellan gives him that furrowed stare, as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or be irritated. “Oh. Right. You’re so thoughtful.” He reaches up and strokes Dorian’s cheek, almost idly. “Would you honestly want to turn up to one of those fancy soirées with some heretical Dalish amputee? I feel like that’s a recipe for a ruined reputation.”

“You’re not just any heretical Dalish amputee, darling. You’re _the_ heretical Dalish amputee.”

Lavellan snorts. “I see. Does that help?”

“It would certainly add to the drama,” Dorian says with a smile. “Besides, the dropped wine glasses and the monocles popping off—that’s all part of the fun.”

“It’d be something, all right,” Lavellan says. “Still, you are the one who keeps insisting it’s not safe for me to show my face here…”

“Yes, I know that, trust me. And I wouldn’t risk you that way. Not for all the popped monocles in Tevinter.” Dorian sighs again. “Still, after everything we’ve both been through all this time—after all this effort spent trying to live honestly as ourselves, and refusing to pretend to love people we don't… It feels exceptionally cruel that I should now have to keep you a secret.”

For a moment, Lavellan has nothing to say to that. He just looks up at Dorian with a sad little frown.

Dorian prods Lavellan’s forehead. “No, don’t make that face, please. You know that face makes me feel emotions. It’s incredibly unpleasant.”

Rather than attempt to wipe away his facial expression, Lavellan snuggles in aggressively, tucking his head under Dorian’s chin, safely out of his view. “Dorian, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you—”

“Stop it, Amatus,” Dorian says gently. “I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. Of course, I would prefer to live openly with you, but that’s not currently an option. What we have here isn’t perfect, but it’s certainly better than the alternative.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Even if I wasn’t, what would we do about it, exactly?”

“We could always… uh… burn all of Tevinter to the ground? And then… frolic openly in the ashes?”

“Let’s… call that a solid Plan B,” Dorian says. “In the meantime, I shall simply content myself with daydreaming about striding into dreary parties like Severin’s with you firmly on my arm. Oh, the faces alone!”

“They would be pretty good, that’s true,” Lavellan says. He pauses, then coolly adds, “For now, I suppose you could always take that Regulus fellow instead, hmmm?”

Dorian goes entirely rigid. 

“What’s the story there, anyway?” Lavellan asks. “I have ever so many questions…” 

“Do you?” Dorian asks, looking now like he might be contemplating throwing himself out a window. “I had rather hoped we could avoid that subject entirely.”

“You are joking, right? In what universe are you possibly getting away with that?”

“Ugh,” Dorian says. “I swear to you, I had no idea he would even be there. I’m so sorry you had to hear all of that nonsense.”

“I don’t blame you for that. You didn’t tell him to say it.”

“Still. Rather humiliating, to say the least… In my defence, I’ve rarely interacted with Regulus outside of a drunken stupor. He seems a sight less reprehensible after a generous helping of brandy.”

Lavellan chuckles sympathetically. “It’s okay, love. I have plenty of regrettable encounters under my own belt. Honestly, I just had no idea you thought so highly of my personal hygiene!” Dorian’s eyes widen with dismay. Lavellan goes on, “I mean, ‘perfectly capable of keeping himself clean’? I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that.”

“That’s not fair,” Dorian says. “I was under duress.”

“Too late. I heard you say it. I will never forget.”

“Well, I wasn’t about to tell the man that Josephine _literally paid me_ to keep the leaves in your hair to a minimum.”

Lavellan pauses for a moment. “Did she really? …Actually? And here I thought we were just having romantic baths for the fun of it…”

“We absolutely were,” Dorian says, tweaking his chin. “Trust me, if I didn’t already have an obsessive interest in seeing you naked, I never would have accepted the job.”

“Ah. So you were just monetizing your natural affection for me, then? How charming.”

“And clever,” Dorian says with a grin. “Don’t forget that bit. Have a romantic bath with a beautiful elf, remove some twigs from his mop, collect money from Josephine, buy the beautiful elf some tiny cakes. I challenge you to come up with a more mutually beneficial system.”

“Well, hold on, when you put it _that_ way. I had no idea the tiny cakes were related.”

“Mm-hm. All for you! You’re quite welcome.”

Lavellan shakes his head. “I do love you,” he says, “even if you are ridiculous.”

“Is that any way to speak to the man who’s bought you so many tiny cakes?”

“Incredibly ridiculous,” Lavellan amends. He leans in, pressing a leisurely kiss to Dorian’s lips, then whispering into them, “Hey, Dorian.”

“Hmm?” Dorian asks, between kissing him back.

“Do you want to…” And then Lavellan gets that look on his face. “… _penetrate the Veil_ —”

Dorian claps his hand firmly over Lavellan’s mouth. “Stop.”

Lavellan is snickering uncontrollably under Dorian’s hand, seeming to have no intention of obeying.

“I mean it. No more of that, please,” Dorian says. “…Or I shan’t let you drink my blood tonight.”

That sets Lavellan off even harder. He peels Dorian’s hand away and gasps, “No! B-but if I don’t drink your blood, where will I get the energy to be an unhinged fanatic in the sheets?”

“I thought that all came from the light of a full moon. Am I wrong?”

“Ancient elven secrets. I couldn't tell you.”

As he takes Lavellan's chin for another kiss, Dorian mutters, “Typical.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for your patience during this long break! This one proved a bit difficult. Also I had to move across the country. Also sometimes you waste time sitting around feeling sad instead of writing fanfiction, WHAT COMPLETE NONSENSE IS THAT? 
> 
> I’ve got the next few chapters laid out, so I should be updating every week or two from here, barring disaster!
> 
> Coming up in future installments: Slightly more life-threatening events. Also: word from some of our former pals. Also: the endless disapproval of Aquinea Thalrassian.


	3. Down on the Underside

Despite the relative peace of a night without Thorn, Dorian can only ever keep Lavellan from it for a few days before the elf returns to the role, sending their schedules right back into opposition.

But even though they rarely go to _sleep_ together on these nights, Dorian generally gets undressed for bed around the same time that Lavellan takes off his own clothes to put on Thorn’s. And if they both need to get undressed anyway—well, there’s really only one logical conclusion.

(Especially considering how much quicker Dorian is at the task of getting Lavellan’s clothes off.)

This evening Lavellan has ended up on Dorian’s lap, their faces pressed together, his right hand cradling Dorian’s jaw. This position is a common result of their usual struggle for bedroom dominance—because it allows them both to delude themselves that they are the ones in control of this situation.

For instance: Dorian has a steady grip on Lavellan’s hips, controlling the pace of things—or he’s clinging on in a desperate attempt to slow things down, to keep Lavellan from pushing him over the edge too soon. Depending on who you ask.

In reality, both of them know deep down that they’re barely in control of themselves anymore, let alone the entire situation. But no one’s about to admit that out loud.

Either way it is fairly indisputable that while Lavellan is attempting to assert himself with fierce kisses, really he is just gasping helplessly into Dorian’s mouth.

When Dorian slides one hand off Lavellan’s hip and over to his dick instead, Lavellan tries to pull his mouth off Dorian’s, ending up with his lips crashed up against Dorian’s cheek. “Th-that’s cheating!”

“Hmmm?” Dorian asks innocently into the corner of Lavellan’s mouth.

Once Lavellan might have grabbed Dorian’s wrists, pinning both his meddling hands out of the way. This is no longer possible—which gives Dorian an unfair advantage, really.

Lavellan attempts to articulate this, but all he gets out is, “T-two against one…”

“What?” Dorian asks, but by now Lavellan has dissolved past the point of verbal coherency. Dorian chuckles, working Lavellan through it, then says, “Well, well. It looks like I win again.”

“I hate you,” Lavellan gasps when he’s able. “No, I love you. Ugh. You’re so stupid. _Fuck._ ”

“I seem to be getting mixed messages here. Does this mean I don’t get to finish, or…?”

Lavellan scowls, bumping his nose against Dorian’s. “Oh, you’re going to finish, all right.”

“Now, see, your tone is very confusing. You _say_ that, but what it sounds like is—”

Lavellan makes a noise of frustration and grabs Dorian’s face, his kiss devouring the rest of the sentence, and Dorian finds himself laughing under Lavellan’s mouth. 

“Maker, you’re adorable,” Dorian says.

“You can shut up,” Lavellan says, as he resolutely sets to finishing what they’ve started.

* * *

It’s never particularly easy to leave Dorian alone amidst the ample warm blankets of their bed—especially not when Dorian is gracing them naked. But it helps when Lavellan is able to thoroughly enjoy Dorian’s presence before he leaves; at least this way, he reasons, if he should somehow wind up getting himself killed, he’ll have marginally fewer regrets about his last few hours of life.

As usual, Dorian lazily pulls on a robe and takes up whatever dense treatise on magical theory he’s currently reading, half-watching as Lavellan darts around the room. 

Lavellan rattles off a string of absent-minded profanities as he straps on his prosthetic arm, stuffs it into his sleeve, and clumsily does up his clothing. Then he heads to the mirror, pulling out the black paint, squinting at his reflection as he draws on Thorn’s vallaslin with a finger.

Today he’s just finishing the strokes on his left cheek when he meets eyes with Dorian’s reflection—Dorian has placed his book down on his chest and is watching Lavellan outright. “Hmm?”

“It’s amazing how fast you can paint that on these days,” Dorian says.

“What paint? What are you talking about?” Lavellan asks as he wipes the black smears from his fingers, then examines his work in the mirror. “This is just my face, Dorian.” 

“Is that the secret to maintaining a fake identity? You simply correct people? ‘No, I’m not the ex-Inquisitor.’ ‘Oh, all right. Fair enough…’”

“That’s pretty much it.” Lavellan leans closer to his reflection, then turns up his right cheek. “Fuck. Is it uneven? Can you tell?”

Dorian gets up and pads over to Lavellan’s side. “Where? Oh… there? No, hardly. I doubt anyone would notice.”

“Good,” Lavellan says, and then Dorian commences his attempts to lean in and give Lavellan a kiss—Lavellan bats him away repeatedly and Dorian continues to try, growing increasingly entertained with each thwarted attempt. “No, stop! Give it a second, you’ll smudge it!”

“Smudge what?” Dorian asks, grinning, and then he leans in again, receiving a palm to the chin. “I thought this was just your face?” 

“All right, smartass,” Lavellan laughs, and he elbows Dorian out of his way. “Two minutes and it’ll be dry. Can you wait that long?”

Dorian sighs dramatically. “Alas, if I must…”

Lavellan leaves him there and heads to the bathroom, scrubbing the telltale remnants of black paint from beneath his fingernails, giving himself a final glance. When he heads back to the bedroom to say goodbye Dorian is still at the mirror, staring morosely into it, and Lavellan hears him muttering: “Ugh, no. Maker, no…”

“What’s the matter?” Lavellan asks.

“Look at this,” Dorian says, pointing at one of his temples, at the subtle greying of his hair. “I have _visibly aged._ ”

Lavellan cracks a grin. “Aww… Are you just noticing that now?”

Dorian whirls around to fix Lavellan with a look of pure betrayal. “You knew? You did! You knew and you didn’t tell me!”

“What’s the problem? I think it’s cute.”

“Cute? _Cute?_ The visible decaying of my mortal form is _cute?_ ” 

“Would you prefer handsome?” Lavellan asks. “How about distinguished? Or amazingly adorable?”

“Well, you’ve obviously gone insane,” Dorian says, and he turns back to his reflection, sighing harshly. “Ugh, this really won’t do. I’ll have to cover this up…”

“Dorian, noooo… Don’t do that. I really do like it.”

“And we’ve just established that you’re insane,” Dorian says, fingering the greying hairs, trying to determine their extent. “This is your fault, incidentally. If you didn’t make me worry myself sick over you every week…”

“Come on. You love me.”

“Well, that’s precisely the issue.”

Lavellan laughs aloud. “Oh, excuse me!” He moves in to smack an obnoxiously audible kiss on Dorian’s cheek. “Well, I’ll be going, then. I’ll leave you free of my torment for one night.”

“Would that I were so lucky,” Dorian says, and then he turns and wraps his arms around Lavellan, squeezing him close. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”

“You know I can’t promise that,” Lavellan says. “But I do promise to come back.”

Dorian sighs again. “I’ll be a white-haired old man when you’re through with me.”

“Yes, you will! That’s precisely the idea.”

“I wasn’t saying ‘we’re going to grow old together.’ I was saying ‘you’re going to age me one hundred years by tomorrow.’”

“Yes, I got that, and I pointedly ignored it,” Lavellan says, and he kisses Dorian firmly on the mouth. “Go to sleep, love. I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise.”

* * *

Like nearly everything in Minrathous, the city’s sewers are both impossibly grand and in an advanced state of decay. Its tunnels are downright cavernous—they stretch so vastly high that there is almost a breeze, which occasionally drifts past and provides short reprieves from the thick, festering smell that wafts up from below the walkways.

Dorian has a name for this dank labyrinth under Minrathous: “Your horrible kingdom,” he calls it, grinning rakishly up at Lavellan. “With your horrible rat subjects.”

Lavellan doesn’t particularly mind this description. He happens to quite like the sewers—so much so that the smell and the damp and the disconcertingly black water dribbling down the walls hardly even bother him anymore.

These tunnels are a slippery, confusing maze—but the wet and inhospitable nature of them means that few people squat down here, despite their extensive size. They’re like a reverse image of Minrathous, the empty underside where Lavellan can freely exist. And in some ways they seem to connect him to his distant friends, who he otherwise can keep up with only in anonymous letters.

For one thing, the stark winding passages of these sewers are reminiscent of Kirkwall— after all, it too was built by the Imperium, and it exists now as a dark, decaying shell of former Tevinter glory. Fitting, then, that a long journey through these sewers leads to an isolated rocky outflow into the Nocen Sea, a perfect spot to land small boats rowed in from merchant ships on their way to Kirkwall. The crewmembers manning the oars are both businesslike and full of humour, like you’d expect any associates of Varric’s to be—they are gruff yet gentle with the escapees Lavellan brings to them, happy to shelter them on this journey in exchange for some form of drastic savings in Free Marches tariffs, a convoluted business deal that Varric and Fenris understand far better than Lavellan does.

(“Can’t all this get you in trouble?” he’d asked Varric in the early stages of this plan. 

To which Varric had responded with trademark dismissal: “It’s Kirkwall, kid. If I weren’t at least a little bit corrupt I’d be disrespecting the office.”

“Just let that trouble try to find him,” Fenris had added, in that particularly threatening tone of his that made Lavellan want to back away slowly.)

Fenris, too, feels connected to this place—whenever Lavellan leads escapees through these clammy corridors he can’t help but visualize Fenris on the other end of the journey, waiting with resources, shelter, directions, warmth… 

‘Warmth’ was far from Lavellan’s first impression of Fenris, but over the period of their acquaintance it's become the main thing Lavellan associates with the man. His cold exterior, in Lavellan’s view, is like a hardy protective shell for that warmth—a shell under which he now tirelessly gathers refugees to keep them safe. Paying homage to Hawke, Lavellan thinks. 

Then there are the reminders of Clan Lavellan, which he sees in his careful markings on the walls of these sewers. In uncertain times, his clan had perfected a waymarking system to help lead its people out of danger: a series of complicated notches in trees that change in meaning depending on their order and orientation, and which are nigh impossible for an unfamiliar outsider to decipher. 

Lavellan has repeated a similar system on these walls, marking the turns of these tunnels, so that he can send escapees on to the outflow without him if need be—if, for example, they are being pursued and Lavellan wishes to draw that attention safely away from the group. Just a few written commands and the escapees can quite easily find their way forward without him.

This system also feels fairly analogous to the way he communicates with his clan now: cryptic and coded. The first letter he’d sent from Tevinter, ostensibly a long, effusive apology from Dorian about their young kin’s untimely passing, had begun with a reference to a Dalish tale about a clever fennec deceiving its predator. Lavellan hung over Dorian's shoulder during the writing of this paragraph, dictating the precise wording to use.

“This is ridiculously unclear,” Dorian had said, even as he dutifully scratched the words down. “This is not going to work.”

“You think my Keeper won't want to read endlessly into something? Have you met her?"

(Sure enough, the return letter—addressed to “Dorian Pavus, Vhenallin,” and full of sorrow over Lavellan’s disappearance—had contained in the middle this line: _Harel dirthara. Dirth vir suledin._ ‘We understand the deception and will keep it a secret.’ The many waypoints their infrequent communications must travel through to get to each other are too numerous, the risk of interception too great—so they continue to correspond like this, in shifty references.)

When traipsing through the sewers Lavellan thinks of Sera, too—every time he shepherds escapees through this maze, he asks them: who else do you know who needs help? And they give him more leads. This process always brings him back to Sera, and the letter of hers that he keeps tucked in the nightstand—the envelope was addressed to “DORIAN FANCYPANTS MAGISTER SER,” but swarming with drawings of bees, and as per her very clear and sensible instructions: “Bees on the envelope mean it’s for _him_.” This letter in particular has two lines in it that he reads repeatedly:

> BE MORE PEOPLE THAN YOU ARE. ANYONE WHO HELPS YOU IS ONE OF YOU. ANYTHING YOU DID SOMEWHERE ELSE WAS YOUR FRIEND DOING IT FOR YOU.
> 
> MAKE THEM THINK YOU’RE EVERYWHERE, EVEN WHEN YOU’RE JUST YOU. BECAUSE MORE PEOPLE TAKE MORE ARROWS AND NOBODY’S GOT THAT MANY ARROWS, YES????

These sewers are the underpinnings of that effort: they allow him be everywhere, all over the city, and unseen. Not a particularly bad kingdom at the end of the day.

* * *

Keeping to the shadows, Lavellan scales up the walls and balconies of Severin’s estate, the stiff fingers of his prosthetic serving as an occasional hook to anchor him as he hauls himself upward.

He is careful not to touch the windows—there is some kind of sinister enchantment at work, according to Nola, though she couldn’t articulate the details. But there is one rather ridiculous exit that can be touched: a small brick chimney on the western edge of the roof. 

“Severin gets so cold in the evenings,” Nola had whispered to Lavellan as Halla. “He has us lighting the fires constantly, it’s too much bother to have to remove the enchantment and put it back on whenever it’s needed…”

“And you want Thorn to come down there? Please tell me you won't set him on fire.”

“Severin won’t be here that evening, the fire will be out. I’ll make absolute sure of it, I promise you.”

On the day of that party Lavellan had laboriously shimmied his way up and out of this narrow chimney. Piece of cake. And now he just needs to… slide down it, probably not into a fire, and somehow get back up with a woman and child in tow. What could possibly go wrong?

At the very least, he doesn’t feel any hot air or smoke coming up from it. Which bodes well in terms of not setting his own ass aflame. 

Lavellan pulls a bundled rope ladder from his back, a useful tool that Endriel once lovingly crafted for him using his Dalish knotting expertise—just the sight of it makes Lavellan feel strangely homesick. (Not to mention grateful for wonderful Endriel, always so proud to craft something when asked, and always with so few probing questions as to why it's needed.) Lavellan secures one end of the ladder around the chimney, then unrolls it down the brick wall of this sooty little passage.

A slight wiggle is needed to get through the lip of the chimney, which is a bit narrower than the rest. From there Lavellan half-climbs, half-slides down the brick chute, landing on his feet in the fireplace, then stooping and crab-walking out into Severin’s library. 

The room is dark and shadowed. But Nola is there, punctually waiting for him in a chair, rocking the baby in question. She lifts her brows as he pops out of the fireplace. 

“Thorn,” he says casually, if quietly, dusting his living hand off on his trousers. “All right?” She nods. “Can you climb a ladder with her or do you need me to take her?”

“I can carry her,” Nola whispers. “This should have her sleepy, I hope.” She hefts up the swaddled infant, wrapping and tying this bundle securely against her body with a cloth. 

“Good,” Lavellan says, drawing a dagger. “Go ahead. Rope’s on the wall. I’ll follow you.”

After ensuring that her baby is securely fastened to her body, Nola stoops down, crawling into the fireplace. Lavellan flits his eyes between her disappearing form and the door to the room. The house is quiet, the way out is clear, and he only has two charges to watch over—one of them mini-sized. Often it’s a whole group of servants he has to figure out how to sneak out unnoticed. In comparison, this all appears to be relatively simple. 

So simple that when the sound of a wailing baby starts to echo down the chimney, Lavellan is almost relieved. _Yep. There it is. The disaster. Right on schedule._

He watches the door nervously, straining with his ears—he can swear he hears distant footsteps already. But Nola should be out of the chimney shortly, and then hopefully she can hush the baby—hang watching their backs, he’ll need to hurry up and start climbing after her…

But when he pokes his head into the fireplace and looks up he can see her form hanging there, blotting out the dim moonlight, distinctly not making progress.

“What are you doing?” he hisses up, amidst the baby’s cries echoing off the bricks. “Get out of there!”

“I can’t,” Nola gasps, and with dread he realizes by the sound of her voice that she’s in the throes of panic. Claustrophobia? “I can’t, the top’s too narrow, I can’t squeeze us both through, it’ll hurt her…”

“Then pass her up first!”

“Th-there’s nowhere to put her, I can’t…”

And then comes the sound of someone’s footsteps definitely just out in the hallway. Lavellan scrabbles backwards, yanking his head out of the chimney with a puff of soot, shooting back to his feet. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pawing through his coat for his pack of knockout powder. He could try to climb after her anyway, to push her out—but if she’s truly stuck then there won’t be much use in that, he’ll just be cornering them up there. How many people can his knockout powder take care of in the meantime? Two? Three, if he’s lucky?

Lavellan turns and stares grimly at the window. 

_You cannot get caught here,_ he tells himself. _You cannot do that to Dorian. You promised him you would be back._

Lavellan looks about, then grabs a paperweight from the desk and lobs it at the nearest windowpane—it shatters through the glass with a horrible, attention-gaining sound—immaterial, as whoever is coming down the hall has already begun opening the door to the library, and at the sound of crashing glass they make an exclamation of outrage.

Lavellan doesn’t have time to consider them. Just as the door opens he hurls a fistful of knockout powder in their face—then barrels for the broken window, sweeping his prosthetic ahead of himself, letting it clear out the remaining glass shards in his path—or that was the intention. As he makes through a stray shard catches him, cutting straight and clear across his left bicep.

“Fuck,” Lavellan says, as he stumbles to regain his footing on the roof outside. “ _Fuck—_ ” 

And then there is a crackling burst—an instant wall of writhing fire and electricity searing horribly hot just inside the windowpane.

Lavellan pauses for just a moment, staring dumbly at this. 

_...Well,_ he thinks. _Guess it’s a good thing I broke out instead of in._

But there’s no time to dally here—the knockout powder will have bought them a minute or two, but there could be others coming. Lavellan clatters along the roof, scaling back up to the chimney, where he leans over the rim and sees Nola hanging just below. She is frantically shushing her baby, crying openly herself.

“Hand her to me,” Lavellan says.

Nola looks up with disbelief. “What? How did—”

“Hurry. Right now.”

Nola loops an arm through Endriel’s rope ladder, then with shaky motions she unwraps the baby from herself and holds her aloft. Lavellan stoops down, reaching with his right arm until he can grasp the baby’s swaddling.

“Two hands, please, take her with two hands—“

“Can’t,” he says briskly. “Let go.”

“No,” Nola says, “I’ll tie her to you, then, hang on…”

And then she begins to loop fabric around his forearm, tying the baby firmly to it. “Elgar’nan,” he mutters.

At last Nola releases them and Lavellan plucks his limb back up—a fretting infant now firmly swaddled to his only working forearm. Slightly less than ideal. 

This tiny, disagreeable grub of an elf is still howling amidst her swaddling, her chubby cheeks pink with outrage. “Shh, shh,” he tells her, holding her awkwardly at his chest, as Nola finally squeezes her way out and clambers onto the roof. “I know, I know, me too, kid, me too...” 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Nola says, “how did you—”

“Change of plans,” he says. “Take her. Please, if you could stop her crying—we need to move quietly, we don’t have time to waste.”

“I’m sorry,” Nola says, hurrying to his arm. “It’s the cold, she hates the cold…”

Nola unties the baby hurriedly from his arm, shushing her, bouncing her, rubbing her back, gradually bringing the wailing down to a merciful whimper. She then quickly reties the swaddling cloth around her own frame. In the meantime, Lavellan winds up Endriel’s rope ladder around his right arm, unfastens it from the chimney, and stashes it across his back. 

Nola is fearfully eyeing the way he is performing everything with just the one arm. “Are you all right, Ser…?”

Lavellan just gestures her onward. “Drainpipe. This side. Hurry.”

* * *

Once they’re safely in the sewers and around the first few corners, Lavellan stops to gasp for air. His breaths are harder than usual, with a ragged edge—he wonders if this is an effect of the window or if he’s just conjuring up this impression out of anxiety...

“Are you all right? Did you touch it?” Nola asks. 

“I didn’t… directly.”

“Your arm, though…”

He doesn’t need her to point that out—he can feel it. The stinging slice clean through his left sleeve. A warm dribbling down his bicep. He occasionally forgets that wearing his heavy, near-indestructible prosthetic doesn’t stop the other half of his left arm from being as alive and fragile as ever.

“What do the windows do, exactly?” he asks her.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry… I just know we’re not meant to touch them without Severin’s permission, they’re meant to have some harmful effect. I don’t know what it is…”

Perhaps it’s just that fiery display of theirs, Lavellan thinks. Although he has a sinking feeling that there’s more. He can feel something pulling at the muscles of his shoulders, like the energy is being physically sucked from his body.

Lavellan knows he should get straight home to take care of this. He should take a look at this injury, at the very least—he should bind it—but he doesn’t want to do that in front of Nola, as there’s no way to do so without revealing his prosthetic.

Normally, if she were safe in a group, he could give her the key to his wall-marked directions and send her along. But she’s alone with a baby. And the sewers are cavernous. And while the space is generally empty, there are occasionally roving squatters who would probably love to take a defenseless woman’s last few pitiful belongings…

So he says, “Don’t concern yourself. Let's go.”

* * *

When Dorian opens his eyes the next morning, Lavellan is still not there.

This isn’t unheard of—Lavellan’s schemes often require him to stay hidden through the morning until he can make a subtle, unobserved retreat back to Dorian’s home. This level of careful patience is quite prudent of him, if anything. But after going to bed worried, waking up without a reassuring “good morning, I love you” is not Dorian’s ideal scenario. He hates to be left hanging like this.

Still, Dorian reminds himself to have faith in Lavellan. He’s witnessed his partner’s miraculous acts on enough occasions—now is hardly the time to think they will cease.

While part of him is frustrated that there is a session of the Magisterium scheduled for today, in a way he supposes it’s a blessing in disguise. Rattling around the house waiting for Lavellan to resurface is generally an exercise in unproductivity—and, anyway, nothing serves as a distraction quite like a long day of mundane aggravations at work.

Which is not quite the agenda for today, as it turns out.

Dorian is just striding into the chambers of the Magisterium when Maevaris hurries over. “Has anyone told you?”

“Told me about what?”

She gives him that one grave look of futility, which can only mean death or betrayal around these parts. “Albanus.”

They quickly join a gathering of their political allies in Albanus’s office, where the man in question is sprawled dead across his desk, a knife stuck in his back.

“Not this again,” Dorian says wearily. “And in the Magisterium itself? What cheek.”

“Have you seen the note?” one of their allies asks, gesturing at it. “It’s so smug it borders on ridiculous.”

Planted next to Albanus’s body, it reads: _MAGIC IS FOR THE WORTHY._

“Oh, please,” Dorian says. “As if it wasn’t already painfully obvious that this was their message.”

“Clearly no one has taught them the principle of ‘show, don’t tell,’” Maevaris says.

“Whatever the reason for all this, they’re chipping away at our voting bloc here,” someone else says. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“Mm. This is hardly the way I want our efforts to die,” Dorian says.

“Have any of you made progress on countering the nullification? Clearly it needs to be a priority. These people aren’t giving up.”

“I may have something soon, actually,” Maevaris says. “I shall let you all know.”

In short order they are herded away from the body by a group of investigating templars, who inform them that the day’s session has been cancelled on account of assassination. “Well, that’s nice of them,” Dorian says.

(“An entire day wasted because of a single assassination?” they hear Valris snap from across the hall. “Ridiculous! Why, in my day, we would legislate with up to three bodies going cold in their seats…”)

Dorian and Maevaris take a pause along the side of the main hall. “Poor Albanus,” she says with a sigh. “Then, if he had just told us what he’d discovered about the nullification effect a tad earlier, we might have already solved it and avoided this entire pickle.”

“I’d call this slightly more than a pickle,” Dorian says. “Though it does make a rather tidy cautionary tale, I’ll grant you.”

Maevaris touches his arm, lowers her voice. “May I come by yours tomorrow? I have a few things to discuss on this matter… seems we ought to do that sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll get the brandy. And maybe some overpriced little cakes.”

“Lovely,” she says. “And will that adorable new servant of yours be there as well?”

Dorian stiffens reflexively, even if there is nothing particularly suspicious about this statement from the outside. _If he hasn’t gotten himself killed in the meantime, perhaps…_ “I believe so.”

“Wonderful,” Maevaris says with a wink. “Until then, sweetheart.”

“Oh, hang on, Mae, one more thing... Have you seen Severin today? Is he about?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Maevaris says. “I don’t believe he’s come in.”

Dorian suppresses the urge to swear. _Fine. It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing, no doubt he is just late coming in, like half the entitled prats around here._ “Thank you, Mae. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

As Dorian walks on alone toward the exit, he tells himself: _Right. No distractions today, but that's fine. Now there’s no waiting until the end of the day to find out if that damned elf is still breathing. You are going to head home now and he’ll be there, and he will laugh at you for being so concerned, and then you’ll thoroughly have your way with him and everything will be perfectly all right._

Before Dorian can reach the main doors, Gallius appears in his way—at the smug sight of him, Dorian feels even more impatient than usual. “Oh…”

“Pavus!” Gallius says. “Before you go, I have some more interesting things I thought you might like to hear. About your Inquisitor of the South?”

 _If you could actually tell me where he is that would be very helpful right now, you complete and utter ass._ “Yes? What of him?”

“Listen to this,” Gallius says, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “The rumour is that he’s actually been working undercover for some purposes of that false southern Divine.”

Dorian suppresses a chuckle at the idea of Lavellan willingly serving the Chantry for a minute longer than he absolutely had to. Instead, he does his best to sound concerned and riveted all at once: “That’s an interesting thought. That would explain why Divine Victoria supposedly hasn’t been able to find him, despite her reach… assuming he hasn’t actually perished, of course…”

“If you like,” Gallius says, “I could arrange for you to speak with someone who’s said to have seen him.”

Dorian pauses. _Excuse me? What are you after now?_ “And who is this person, pray tell?”

“A merchant I’m acquainted with. They tend to have ears in the right places, as you know.” Gallius shrugs. “Of course, if you aren’t interested…”

Caution is needed here, Dorian thinks—so he sighs, long and low. “Well, I shall think about it. Thank you. It’s… I find it rather exhausting, getting my hopes up again and again. At this point I simply… hesitate to go through it all once more if there’s a risk I wind up facing even more disappointment. I’m sure you can understand…”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Gallius says, in a soothing tone that can’t hide how delighted he is at this clear show of weakness. “Think on it, then. If you decide you are interested in speaking with the man, do just let me know.”

“I shall. Thank you very much,” Dorian says, and he continues on, doing his best not to shake his head. _Now, what manner of prank is this?_ he thinks. _And, more importantly, what are the chances I can make it spectacularly backfire in his face?_

With all this to distractedly mull over, Dorian makes it back home in near record time. As he walks into the front hall Endriel is there to cheerfully greet him: “Avanna! Lord Pavus, you have—”

“Is he home?” Dorian asks. “Please tell me he’s home.”

Endriel shakes his head, flinching in reflex when Dorian curses. “Not yet, Lord Pavus, I’m sorry. But, er—there is someone here to see you…”

“Well, whoever it is, would you please ask them to come back later? I’m not particularly in the mood to—”

“ _Later?_ ” comes a familiar voice, and Dorian feels his shoulders shoot upwards with thirty-some years of well-trained fear. “After all this time, all this distance I’ve travelled to see you, you would throw me back out into the streets? Where have your manners gone?”

Great. Now. Of course, it would be have to be today.

Dorian turns slowly about, summoning up a strained smile. “Why, Mother,” he says. “I had no idea.”

* * *

Lavellan can feel a distinct thumping pain along with his heartbeat—a full-body shudder, like the whole world is vibrating, clenching his chest, making him increasingly dizzy. He tries very hard to hide the swoon from his steps as he and Nola reach the outflow to the Nocen Sea.

“Here,” he says, handing her a wrapped bundle from his pack. “A few things to eat. You can take shelter in the cave behind you—the merchants should be by for you within a day or two. They can show you the seal of the Frontier Shipping Company, if you’re unsure of them.”

“Will we be safe?” she asks. “Are they trustworthy?”

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry, I know their employer very well… And once you’re in Kirkwall, Fenris will be there to help you.”

Lavellan feels another thump across his consciousness as he finishes saying this. He rubs his eyes, attempting to just look tired, glancing at the water.

“Thank you,” Nola says. She is studying him closely now, gently bouncing her baby all the while. “You are him again, aren’t you?”

“Who?”

“The man who came to speak to me at the estate a few days ago. You’re the same man, you must be.”

He slacks with impatience. There’s a reason he tries not to get Halla involved in Thorn’s business— _sloppy work, Lavellan._ “And why was this man at the estate?”

“I—I'm not sure, really. There was a large party, I assumed he just slipped in, but...”

 _So she can't connect me to Dorian. That's something, at least._ He says, “I don’t keep track of who works for me when. But you can think that if you wish. There’s no harm in being in two places at once.”

“All right,” Nola says uncertainly. “I—thank you, Ser Thorn. Thank you very much.”

Lavellan leaves her there, hauling himself up a few iron rungs protruding from the rocks and back to the outflow pipe from the sewers. His footsteps splash him into the dark, where he finds the first protected alcove and huddles straight into it, slacking against the wall, letting a swoon overtake him.

“Shit,” he mutters, and he paws at his belt for a healing draught, yanking the cork out with his teeth, spitting it across the sewer pipe, then downing the flask's contents eagerly.

He wipes his mouth and waits—but there is nothing from it. The dizziness doesn’t abate, the painful thumping goes on, his exhaustion continues to mount. “Shit,” he says again, and he attempts to stagger back upright.

This is not good. With morning already well past here, it will be a sight more difficult than usual to sneak from the sewer back to Dorian’s home—there will be people out in the streets. And in this state he’s not going to have an easy time being stealthy. He may need to wait ages until the coast is clear.

If he can even make it there. Lavellan stumbles again, weathering another full-body shudder—then places his hand on the slick sewer wall.

 _Come on,_ he tells himself. _Don’t die here. Imagine if Dorian had to come all the way down here to collect your body. One whiff of the place and he’d never forgive you._

Steeling himself on the wall, he begins to stagger ahead, dreading the length of this journey. Normally he’s delighted by the extensive size of his horrible kingdom, but in this state…

He thinks, suddenly, of the avalanche that buried Haven. That frigid trek through the mountains. _Now, how long did you walk through all that snow? That was much colder and more dangerous than this. But you made it back anyway, didn’t you?_

As he shuffles onward, Lavellan tries to distract himself from his predicament by focusing on those visuals. Of Cassandra and Cullen finding him frostbitten and disoriented on the mountainside. Of being carried back to camp and finally starting to feel warm again. The possibility of that relief. And the image of Dorian striding toward him, a brilliant smile on. “Well, well!” Dorian had laughed, in that flippant way of his, as if this was all a mere trifle—belied by the joyful relief in his expression. 

They had been ‘just friends’ back then. But in that moment, feeling cold and confused and slightly concussed, with Dorian’s radiant face above him, it had occurred to Lavellan: _Before I die here, I definitely need to kiss this man._

The mere thought of that makes Lavellan chuckle now, even as he is half-fainting his way down a sewer tunnel. _One more time, then, Dorian,_ he thinks. _Because if I’m going to die today, I could definitely do with another kiss or two first._

* * *

Aquinea is gracefully lounging on Dorian’s most comfortable sofa, affecting a decidedly upper-class sort of sprawl. She swirls her glass of wine and says, “Now, where was I…”

“Mm,” Dorian says. He is sitting across from his mother and staring straight at the floor with his arms folded, thinking a mile a minute, constantly changing his mind on what he should do next. 

It has been far too long now—by this point they are well into the afternoon. Should he simply head out and search for Lavellan? But no, he might never find him, the elf is excellent at staying hidden, and Dorian has no clue what route he might be trying to take home. No doubt through the foulest parts of the city sewers… Probably better for Dorian to stay put here so he is on hand for healing as soon as Lavellan makes it back. 

But what if he never does make it back? What if he is lying face-down in a ditch somewhere? Is Dorian meant to just sit here on his hands? Should he rather march up to Severin’s estate? And then what, exactly? _Hello, have you by any chance killed an elf this past evening? This short, unkempt hair, lovely ass, penchant for worrying me sick…_

“Of course, your cad of a father just had get himself assassinated and leave me with all the admin,” Aquinea is saying. “I can barely breathe under the weight of things, it’s ghastly.”

“Certainly.”

Aquinea levels a cool gaze at him. “And now I must suffer this indignity as well. My beloved son, content to sit here and blatantly ignore his own mother.”

“Of course.”

“ _Dorian Pavus._ ” This familiar sound is like an icy puncture into his attentions and it makes him instinctively jump. “Is there something you wish to share with me, then, since I am evidently boring you to pieces?”

Dorian sighs, kneading his temples, under which he is developing quite the headache. “Well, I apologize for being distracted, Mother, but this is not a particularly good time. Would it have killed you to write ahead and warn me that you were coming?”

Aquinea barely lifts a brow, the rest of her remaining languidly, unconcernedly still. “And give you the chance to think up a convincing excuse for why I shouldn’t?”

Dorian almost grins at that. _Fair point._ “Why, perish the thought. Refuse my own mother?”

“Please do spare me the insincere song and dance, my darling boy.” She takes a delicate sip of her wine, then says, “Well, no matter. We shall have ample time to catch up in detail over the next few weeks.”

“Over the… I’m sorry? What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that you shall be hosting me here for a few weeks while I conduct my business in the city. That’s not too terrible a hardship to bear for the sake of someone who laboriously brought you into this world, I imagine?”

“What—but I—wouldn’t some more luxurious accommodations suit you better? A suite in the city centre…?”

“No, I have decided that I prefer to stay here.”

“But,” Dorian says, feeling at an utter loss. “But—no, you can’t. Absolutely not, it won’t work…”

“And why not?”

 _Because my dear secretive partner lives in this house and I don’t wish to explain him to you?_ “Because—it’s—I need warning first, you can’t simply—”

“Now, what was that phrase you so liked to utter at me during your teenage years?” Aquinea asks. “Ah, yes: ‘Don’t tell me how to live my life!’ How was that?”

“Oh, sweet blood of Andraste,” Dorian mutters.

“Mm-hm,” Aquinea says. Then her expression suddenly brightens, and she nods and raises her near-empty wine glass. “Ah, very good…”

It’s Endriel who has appeared, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Pardon me, my lady,” Endriel says, bowing deeply, and then he turns to Dorian. “I apologize for the interruption, Lord Pavus, but I need to speak with you.”

“This is hardly an appropriate time,” Aquinea says.

“Actually, it’s an incredibly appropriate time,” Dorian says, and he gets to his feet as Aquinea tuts with distaste. “Pardon us for a moment, Mother.”

He follows Endriel to the other side of the room, feeling his mother’s eyes on his back the whole while. Knowing with certainty that she will be trying to eavesdrop, he lowers his voice. “What is it?”

“Ser, I thought you should know that Halla has returned.”

Before he can stop himself, Dorian lets out a relieved groan that’s been several hours in the making. Across the room his mother arches a brow. “Is he all right?”

Endriel hesitates, then says, “He asked me not to trouble you.”

This is typical of Endriel. After years of suffering under his former master, he still carries a deeply entrenched fear of defying orders. Even in this household, where he has already managed to relearn so much trust and comfort. Even when he knows very well he won’t be punished for defying an order with cause. Even when he’s sure the cause is a very good one. It’s what he is quite obviously doing here, after all—there would be no reason for him to come into the drawing room just now other than to pointedly disobey Lavellan and trouble Dorian with the situation.

Normally, Dorian tries to be as gentle as possible with Endriel—but in this particular moment Dorian’s patience is at zero. “Spit it out, please.”

Endriel winces visibly, giving Dorian that doe-eyed look of regretful apology that he tends to whenever he is caught between the wishes of his two bosses. “He did appear to be injured.”

“What? How so, how badly?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t show me. He just asked me to fetch some bandages… but he doesn’t look well. I think he might need you.”

“All right,” Dorian says, with grim resolve, and he spins back around, raising his voice again: “Excuse me, Mother, I must see to this—Endriel, could you refill her glass, and maybe get her some olives or something? Thank you kindly…”

“What, exactly…” Aquinea begins, but her son has already departed the room at a veritable jog.

* * *

Lavellan is sprawled on the floor of the bedroom, his head and shoulders propped up against the wall. He is breathing heavily, pawing uselessly at the clasps of his coat with his good hand. He is still slow at dressing and undressing at the best of times, and right now is definitely not the best of times—he feels sweaty and disoriented, the painful thudding wracking his entire body. He always hates asking for assistance with his clothing, but at this rate he might have to get Endriel’s help after all…

And then Dorian storms into the room. He locates Lavellan’s prone form in the corner and rushes to take a knee at his side, swatting Lavellan’s ineffectual hand away and hurriedly undoing the clasps himself. “Right, what’s happened? Where’s the injury?”

“I-I’m not…” Lavellan begins.

Dorian then notices the obvious: a blood-soaked gash torn through Lavellan’s sleeve. He carefully undoes Lavellan’s clothing and pulls his arm out of one sleeve after another, to the elf’s squirming displeasure, at last uncovering a long, thin laceration across his bicep.

“From Severin’s place, yes?” Dorian asks. “Is this the spot you were touched? Was there anywhere else?”

Lavellan doesn’t have the energy to ask how Dorian has so handily figured all this out. He simply nods and says, “That’s it.”

Dorian shuts his eyes, focusing and collecting energies into his palm, and then he presses his hand against Lavellan’s wound and sends an airy flush of dispelling magic through it. Lavellan twitches and yelps at the feel of it.

“Hush,” Dorian snaps. “Hold still.”

“What did you…” Lavellan says, staring at it. The spell has wakened the cut, causing it to ooze fresh blood—and Lavellan is still breathing heavily—but he is suddenly free of the horrible thumping effect, like being released from a stranglehold. Dorian notices a hint of Lavellan’s usual rosy flush already beginning to creep back into his cheeks. “Shit. Thank you.”

Dorian grabs a healing draught from Lavellan's person, uncorks it, and holds it forward. “Drink.”

“I tried that, it didn’t help…”

“Yes, well, a curse of mortality will do that,” Dorian says, and he takes Lavellan’s hand in his, placing Lavellan's fingers on the flask. “Neat trick, warding off healing effects to make any wounds you sustain all the more devastating. But I’ve dispelled it now. Drink.”

Lavellan obeys, and instantly he feels that familiar restorative sweep through him. He wipes his sleeve across his mouth and sighs, “Thank Mythal…” 

As incredibly relieved as Dorian is, he feels an equal amount of pounding anger behind his headache. He snatches up a cloth, presses it to Lavellan’s wound, and says, “Amatus, I distinctly told you not to touch anything. Why would you be so careless? You said you didn’t need to hear it—why wouldn’t you listen to me, if you didn’t actually know what you were getting into?”

“I did know,” Lavellan says. “I didn’t intend this to happen, it’s just… Things changed. Circumstances. Disaster, etcetera. There was a baby in a chute…”

“There was a… pardon?”

“It’s complicated,” Lavellan says. “But it’s okay now, right? You fixed it.”

“Well, of course I fixed it. I am amazingly proficient. That’s why you _ask for my assistance._ On which point—how long have you been lying here, exactly?”

“Not so long,” Lavellan says. “Twenty minutes?”

Dorian heroically resists the urge to wring his partner’s neck. “Amatus, you stubborn twit. Why didn’t you just send for me straight away?”

“You had company,” Lavellan says, through laboured breaths, though each one fills his lungs a little more easily than the last. “You wanted me to interrupt? What am I, some kind of... barbarian?”

“We have amply established that that is precisely what you are,” Dorian says. “But of course, _this_ would be the moment you decide to attempt some semblance of manners. When your unreasonable little life depends on it.”

Lavellan shoots him a pale ghost of a grin. “Better late than never?”

Dorian huffs—half irritation, half amusement. “No, it’s not. First of all, if you were to expire on my rug, it would take weeks for the servants to get the stains out. That would be very inconsiderate.”

“Oh... dammit.”

“Not to mention,” Dorian says, trailing the backs of two fingers down Lavellan’s cheek, “I’m not finished with you yet. You can’t just die and leave me here, it’d be terribly rude of you.”

“Sorry,” Lavellan says. “I will try to die a bit less, how about?”

“Good,” Dorian says, and he leans in and kisses Lavellan firmly, his lips sticking briefly to Lavellan’s dry, chapped pair. A minuscule detail, but here it gives Dorian a twinge of concern. He should get Lavellan some water, he thinks, and a blanket. Or maybe a bath. Yes, in fact—after all that, Dorian wants nothing more than to gather Lavellan in his arms and get into a warm, relaxing bath with him. That will sort this headache right out.

There is a tug at the back of Dorian’s mind, as if there is a pressing reason he shouldn’t be doing all that just now, but Dorian swats it away—whatever it is, it can’t possibly be as important as the battered little man in front of him. 

And possibly a long, unpleasant conversation about how this kind of situation cannot happen again. After the bath, perhaps.

“Thank you for, uh,” Lavellan says, “uncursing me, or whatever you just did. How did you know…?”

“Because I’m an all-seeing genius, clearly,” Dorian says, moving his hand to Lavellan’s ear, gently pinching the lobe. The touch makes Lavellan shiver and smile blissfully up at him. “Now, darling, what can I do for you? Shall I just help you get into bed? Or should I—”

“Introduce us, perhaps?” comes Aquinea’s voice from behind him. 

Lavellan’s brows shoot up with fearful confusion and Dorian’s entire body goes cold.

“Oh,” Dorian says. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please behold [this beautiful illustration](https://3jarsofbees.tumblr.com/post/162906670422/dont-mind-me-im-just-crying-forever-the-second) of a scene from chapter 1 by [KuroCyou](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroCyou) a.k.a. [kurogoesinthedas.tumblr.com](http://kurogoesinthedas.tumblr.com/). I MEAN??? I strongly advise you to commission her ASAP.
> 
> Next time: Who doesn’t like hanging out with their mother-in-law? I’m sure this will go swimmingly.


	4. Don't Look Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aquinea seeks the bottom of this emotional trifle.

“So,” Aquinea says. “You must be that Herald of the Inquisition.”

Lavellan is barely standing now, bracing himself against the wall, holding the cloth tight to the wound on his bared left arm. He exchanges a glance with Dorian, who has nonchalantly distanced himself from Lavellan by about five feet, as if they hadn’t just been kissing each other on the floor.

Dorian clears his throat and says, “Actually, Mother, this is Halla. He’s my—”

“Oh, please. Have a little respect for me, darling.”

“Why are you assuming he’s the ex-Inquisitor?” Dorian asks, although his heart clearly isn’t in this deception. “You must know the man went missing. I’ve mentioned it a dozen times at least.”

“And you expected me to believe that, did you? As if I’ve no idea what my own son’s actual grief looks like. Your acting is not _that_ spectacular, darling.” She levels her gaze at Lavellan, scanning his dark curls, the vallaslin on his freckle-beaten face—not to mention his clearly exposed prosthetic arm. “And you... happen to match the descriptions rather precisely.”

“Well, uh,” Lavellan says. He exchanges another glance with Dorian—who shoots back a look of clear resignation—then says, “Nice to meet you, my lady.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Aquinea says. “Now, Dorian, do clean up this man of yours—can’t you see he’s injured? He will need to be in better shape than this when we sit down to discuss this in _much greater detail_. I shall see you downstairs for a drink in an hour’s time, yes?”

And then she disappears down the hallway before anyone can object.

“Wonderful,” Dorian says. “From nightmare to nightmare!”

“I,” Lavellan says. “How… but where did—how long has she—”

“Maker knows. She was here when I came home this morning.”

“But is this… all right? Will she…” Lavellan hesitates. There are too many troubling variables to even sort through here. Instead of trying to speak them aloud he just makes a face at Dorian.

“I’ll… speak to her about it,” Dorian says. “I’m sorry, love. If it helps, I sincerely doubt she’ll want to expose you. She does know how to be discreet, when it pleases her. And she’s generally invested in me courting less scandal, not more—I imagine she’ll see reason. Still, this is… not particularly ideal.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that she was here?”

Dorian whips his head around. “Why didn’t I—?! Oh, I don’t know! Perhaps I was a touch preoccupied by my dearly infuriating partner slowly expiring on the carpet, hm?”

“All right, all right. Fair point...”

Dorian comes to Lavellan’s side, taking the cloth from Lavellan’s hand and tying it snugly about his wound. “Feeling all right?”

“Fine. Just tired.”

“I can imagine. Why don’t we get Thorn off of you? You shouldn’t be lugging that weighty contraption around in this state.”

“I said I’m fine, Dorian,” Lavellan says, although he must admit to himself that removing his prosthetic and washing off Thorn’s aging, sticky vallaslin is all he wants to do right now. So he makes for the bed, flopping to a sitting position and wearily pulling his clothes the rest of the way off. Dorian stands alongside him—not interfering with Lavellan’s actual disrobing (lest he be snapped at) but helpfully taking whatever articles Lavellan can toss his way, then bearing the weight of the prosthetic as Lavellan unstraps it with a sigh of relief.

“Kaffas, this thing is as heavy as you are,” Dorian says, heaving it onto a dresser. “How do you manage it?”

“I wonder the same thing,” Lavellan says wearily, rubbing the stump of his left elbow. “Magister-ing ended early today, I assume? Is everything all right?”

“Oh, not entirely. There was another assassination.”

“Who was it? Not one of yours?”

“Mm. Albanus.”

Lavellan’s eyes widen. “No… The same thing, killed with a knife? He was? Oh, Dorian…”

“Now, don’t you dare,” Dorian says. “You are not allowed to make the puppy eyes of concern when you’re the one dragging yourself in here in dire straits. I am a paragon of safety by comparison.” 

“Can’t we both be horribly imperilled? Isn’t that a logical possibility?”

“More of a natural state of being, I should think,” Dorian says. “It’s all right. Mae is coming tomorrow to discuss her progress with the nullification. With any luck we might finally be able to crack it.” He holds a hand out to Lavellan. “Quick bath?”

“Do we have time? Your mother said drinks in an hour.”

Dorian laughs. “Don’t tell me she’s already got you bending to her every whim! You’ve only just met.”

“Well, I don’t know. She is your mother. Shouldn’t I… uh… make a good impression?” Lavellan frowns. “Beyond the part where her first sight was of me bleeding on the floor and wearing just half of my shirt.”

“That’s actually a rather Tevinter introduction, come to think of it,” Dorian says. “Look at you assimilating! I am bursting with pride.”

Lavellan snorts. “Idiot… It’s fine. I can have a drink with your mother. I imagine she would have quite a few questions for me.”

“You have no idea what you’re in for,” Dorian says, absently rearranging a few of Lavellan’s curls. “But you haven’t even slept, love. Are you certain you have the energy?”

“Sure, I can do one quick drink before I pass out. I had a… short nap in the sewer. Kind of.”

“You had a…” Dorian whacks his face into his palm. “That might just be the most ‘you’ phrase I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“You definitely shouldn’t,” Dorian says. “All right… so. You want to have a drink with my mother. Fine. That’s… fine. Only, you must promise me—I mean it, look at me, look me straight in the eye and promise… that you will not take anything she says seriously.”

Lavellan says, “Cassandra once told me I don’t take anything seriously enough. Does that help?”

“It’s a start,” Dorian says. “My mother can be critical, and sometimes she verges on ridiculous, but please don’t take any of it personally. Just laugh it off. Promise me. ”

“I shall do my utmost,” Lavellan says, and he gets unsteadily to his feet. “All right. Quick bath—no time to waste! Only ten minutes of unproductive cuddling, tops.”

“He says, as though I’m the one who refuses to let go in the mornings.”

“Shut it,” Lavellan says, and the two of them stroll out of the bedroom.

Waiting for them in the hallway is Endriel, who is gazing morosely at his feet. When they step out he practically jumps with fright—then hesitantly approaches. “Lord Pavus? Ser? M-may I…”

“What’s wrong, Endriel?” Dorian asks.

Endriel bows deeply. “I am so sorry,” he says, and he’s almost instantly overwhelmed by tears. “I’m so sorry, I sincerely apologize, i-if there is anything I can do to earn your forgiveness, I’ll—I w-was just getting some wine, I j-just left her for a minute, I-I-I didn’t think she’d…”

“Endriel,” Dorian says, sounding alarmed, but the elf continues crying unabated. “Endriel!”

“Hey, woah,” Lavellan says, affecting a soothing tone, hands raised. “Lethallin! Mana, mana…”

“I failed you,” Endriel sobs at Lavellan. “I let you be seen… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll never—”

Lavellan takes Endriel by the shoulder, murmuring quiet phrases that almost sound like wordless comforts to Dorian’s ears: “Tel’numin-ma. Ir dareth. Tel’abel. Mala atish nadas.”

While Endriel’s eyes are still brimming, this seems to bring him down from ‘full-blown panic’ into ‘general upset.’ After a moment he turns hesitantly to face Dorian, as if this is the next hurdle of apology to clear: “Lord Pavus, I d-d-deeply apologize…”

“It’s not your fault, Endriel,” Dorian says. “I’ve known that woman my entire life and I still don’t know how to stop her from getting exactly what she wants. You didn’t stand a chance.”

“I… Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. May I please have another chance? May I still work for you? You can pay me less, much less, I’ll—”

“Of course we still want you to work here,” Dorian says. “And no, I will not pay you less, that’s ridiculous.”

“You are not in trouble,” Lavellan adds. “Everything’s all right.”

“B-but I—this job means so much to me, I don’t want you to think that I—”

“We don’t think anything, Lethallin, except that we’re very glad to have you here.”

“Tell you what, Endriel,” Dorian says. “If you could just head downstairs for me and ask Laelia to make this one a snack?” He bumps Lavellan illustratively with his elbow. “Then after that I think you should take the rest of the day off. How about it?”

Endriel cringes backward, looking downright horrified. Dorian frowns at the sight of this.

Lavellan says, “In a good way, Lethallin. He just means take a break. Take a breath. You’re upset. Give yourself a day to calm down, then you can go back to work tomorrow like usual.” He pats Endriel’s arm and adds, “Maybe tomorrow we’ll finally make those hearth cakes?”

“A-all right. Yes, Ser. If you wish,” Endriel says. “Thank you. I’m sorry. Ir abelas. Thank you very much.”

Lavellan and Dorian exchange a sad, near-parental glance as Endriel strides quickly away, wiping his face on his sleeve. Quietly, Lavellan says, “I need to get him back to Ferelden already.”

“Well, you can’t force him to go.”

“I know, just… Even if I could get him to talk. Maybe if he would finally talk to me about what happened to him…”

“You can’t force him to do that, either.”

“But it’s been so long that he’s kept it in. I just feel awful for the poor kid.”

“I know, love,” Dorian says. “I feel the same.”

In a way, Dorian thinks, Endriel’s outbursts are actually a sign of progress—they’re a new symptom of the last few months. In the beginning he’d been far too fearful and guarded to let anything like this escape. It’s only with his emerging trust in them that he’s suddenly been having these deeply emotional reactions. Sometimes it’s something logical that sets him off—a perceived failure, like this one, or even just a misconstrued tone—although other times it’s far more difficult to trace.

And then Dorian recalls how he snapped at Endriel in the drawing room—he wonders if that might have put the boy on edge. So he taps Lavellan’s elbow and says, “You go on, love. I’ll be right there…” 

Dorian catches up with the younger elf on the stairs. “Endriel! One more thing…”

Endriel wheels around and hurries back up, eager, near-frantic. “Yes? What can I do?”

“I just realized that I haven’t thanked you,” Dorian says. “It was good of you to come tell me he was injured. You might well have saved his life by doing that. I’m not sure I would’ve seen to him in time otherwise.”

Endriel’s eyes are getting steadily wider. “W-was it that serious? Is he…?”

“He will be fine, yes,” Dorian says. “Thank you, Endriel. I’m eternally grateful to you.”

“Of course,” Endriel says quietly, still looking for all the world like a nervous woodland creature about to bolt for the nearest hedge. “Of course. Anything.”

Dorian is never sure whether he’s actually helping Endriel by saying things like this. Still, he tries his best to smile reassuringly and says, “We’re lucky to have you. Now go get some rest, would you?”

* * *

Dorian has always described his mother with a casual air: the woman sitting inside with a cool drink while she sends servants to take him out boating. Or the woman sipping on wine as she coldly, pointedly ignores his father’s tirades. Or insisting that young Dorian must come along with her to a marvellous series of locations around Thedas, only to once again leave him in the care of her servants so that he barely sees her until their trip home.

In stringing all of Dorian’s stories together, what Lavellan had assembled to represent Aquinea in his mind’s eye was some breezy, refined, generally inattentive presence.

After they’d discussed the full trauma of what had happened with Dorian’s father, Lavellan had asked, “Where was your mother in all this? What did she think?”

“She hadn’t been thrilled with my behaviour herself,” Dorian had said, “but she didn’t support his dalliance with blood magic either. Although, whether that had more to do with me or with her general distaste for the man, I couldn’t say. She rarely supported anything he did. On the other hand, she certainly wasn’t invested enough to stop him from trying it.” 

“You mean she let it happen?” 

“In a manner of speaking. Though, truthfully, I don’t know if she was aware of what he was planning until after I’d already gone. She’s always been rather preoccupied with her own affairs.” 

“Then you’ve never asked her about it?” 

Dorian had paused, then said, “We briefly spoke on it once. She actually apologized. Not for anything to do with herself, mind—for my father’s actions. Still, if you knew the woman you’d know what a miraculous occurrence that little show of sincerity was. Far be it from me to probe a wonder like that for further detail! Best to just accept it.” 

“That’s enough, is it? Is that all you hold her to?” 

Dorian had smirked, then pinched Lavellan’s cheek. “You can’t hold everyone to everything, my darling. That’s a recipe for disappointment.”

That, in sum, had been Lavellan’s understanding of Aquinea Thalrassian up until now. Some distant, ambivalent force of loving neglect.

And yet, as he sits across from Aquinea in the drawing room, Lavellan can’t help but feel in total awe of her presence.

Aquinea is a striking swan of a woman, with flawlessly sculpted cheekbones and this long, syrupy, midnight-black hair that is swirled about her head in an elaborate feat of hairdressing whose physics Lavellan could not possibly guess. And her hands—one wrapped about her wine glass, one lounging on the arm of the sofa—are fascinatingly graceful, even when they’re still. It’s like they’ve been artfully posed by a painter, down to each joint of every finger.

As he gazes at her in wonder she is staring critically back at him. And then she says, “You did not tell me that he was so short.”

“Well,” Dorian says. “Now you know.”

“The accounts rarely mention my height,” Lavellan says with a feeble grin. “I, uh, think the Inquisition was concerned someone might work out that I’m not very impressive.”

Aquinea simply makes a “hm” sound, as if to say, _Thank you for helpfully informing me that you’re not very impressive._

There is another uncomfortable pause. She continues to study him with a raised, perfectly shaped brow. And then she asks, “Is it my imagination or are you less tattooed than before?”

“It’s not your imagination, my lady. The other ones weren’t real. They’re a… cover of sorts.”

“Good, then. You look better like this. A touch less like you’re about to slit some poor human’s throat.”

Dorian groans audibly, placing his face in his hands.

“Oh, shall I not have any opinions at all, then? Honestly,” Aquinea says. 

“The others are a bit bold, it’s true,” Lavellan says. “They’re meant to distract from my face.”

“Well, they certainly do achieve that,” Aquinea says. She leans slowly forward, her wine glass held aloft in one vaulted hand. “It’s an interesting face, now I’m able to look at it. You have lovely eyes.”

“Oh? Thank you.”

“That being said,” Aquinea says, “you are quite the inconvenience. You realize that, yes?”

“Uh… sorry?”

“There will be no heir to my uselessly deceased husband’s family name with you in the way. Well? What do you say to that? Are you comfortable being the effective murderer of the Pavus line?”

“Um,” Lavellan says. “Uh.”

“Excuse me?” Dorian says. “Clearly _I’m_ the murderer of the Pavus line. This beautiful man just happens to be my murder weapon of choice.”

Rather than address her son, Aquinea gazes wearily at Lavellan. “Have you ever heard someone so pleased to defy his own mother's wishes? Of course, he gets that strong will from me, so I suppose I have myself to blame. I would almost applaud his cheek—if it didn’t mean I’d slept with his wretched father for nothing.”

Lavellan definitely has no words at this point.

“Surely it wasn’t entirely for nothing,” Dorian says. “What about the existence of your beloved son, the apple of your eye?”

“You are referring to the son who has been rudely avoiding having me visit for the past six months?”

“Well—that’s only because he’s been very busy, you see. Busy accomplishing brilliant things.”

“Busy harbouring a southern fugitive, is what you mean.”

“He’s not a fugitive, per se,” Dorian says. “More of a… metaphorical ghost.”

“Oh, quite good,” Aquinea says. “You cannot give me an heir because you are busy making calf eyes after a metaphorical ghost. Do you not see why I’m concerned about your path in life?”

“But he’s such a lovely metaphorical ghost,” Dorian says with a smirk.

Aquinea scoffs, then looks at Lavellan. “So little to say? I would expect any lover of my son’s to have a bit more lip.”

“Uh,” Lavellan says again. Not only is this conversation bewildering on about ten levels, but he is increasingly aware of the fact that he hasn’t slept in over a day. He can feel his brain chugging with the effort to keep up.

Dorian says, “He’s only just met you, Mother, honestly. He’s being cautious, that’s all… You should hear him in private. There’s no end to his cheek.”

“Good, then. You deserve no less than a significant hassle.”

“A significant hassle!” Dorian says in an adoring tone, grinning over at Lavellan. “Now, there’s a fine pet name for you if I’ve ever heard one.”

Lavellan raises a brow at him. “You’re one to talk, are you?”

“You take that back. I’m an absolute peach.”

“In defense of my son on this matter,” Aquinea says, “you are the man who is currently playing dead and compelling Dorian to act along. Whatever is the story there, elf?”

“No,” Dorian says.

His mother turns her impassive gaze on him. “I beg your pardon?”

“A simple rule for this household, since you’re so intent on being here,” Dorian says. “You do not question my partner regarding what he’s up to. That’s his business. And if you do anything that could reveal him—”

“Oh, please,” Aquinea says. “I have no interest in getting wrapped up in this little drama of yours, whatever it may be. I’m simply curious why he should have to drag you into it as well.”

“Because I wholeheartedly volunteered to be dragged into it,” Dorian says. 

“You remain determined to make your life as difficult as possible, I see,” Aquinea says. “Are you honestly telling me I cannot ask a single question about this arrangement? Pray tell, what _can_ I ask him about?”

“I don’t know. How he’s doing today? His favourite colour?”

“Trivialities that help no one, then. And would you actually let him answer those questions or would you continue to speak over him like you have been?”

“I’m simply trying to save him some bother. You are quite a lot to handle for the uninitiated.”

“You had to learn it from somewhere, my darling.”

Dorian laughs aloud. “I certainly did!”

Lavellan is watching all of this unfold with disbelief. He supposes he shouldn’t have expected tender family moments here. Still, the longer Dorian and his mother go on like this, the greater Lavellan feels this twitching, unbearable urge to inject some sincerity into the situation. So he says, “My lady, if you want to know why I’m in Tevinter—well, I’m here for Dorian. That’s about the sum of it.”

“You are here ‘for Dorian.’ You believe you are doing him a favour?”

“I suppose that’s debatable,” Lavellan says, “but…”

“Yes, he is absolutely doing me a favour,” Dorian says. 

“For the Maker’s sake, could you not restrain yourself from interrupting him for one solitary minute? He was about to actually answer a question.” Aquinea gestures lazily at Lavellan. “Go on.”

Lavellan hesitates, glancing at Dorian, then says, “Just—if anything happened to Dorian while I wasn’t around to help, I know that I’d never be able to forgive myself. So… here I am. Good idea or not.”

“And how does a ‘metaphorical ghost’ expect to help here, exactly?”

“Ah, now, wait a moment,” Dorian says. “That sounds very much like what I just said you shouldn’t ask.”

Aquinea sighs with exasperation. “What exactly is the point of this discussion if you are going to obstruct it at every turn? The elf may as well not even be here.”

“Well, that’s a fine point, Mother,” Dorian says, and he takes Lavellan’s arm. “You must be exhausted, darling. Why don’t you go have your nap? You’ve given my mother more than enough attention for one afternoon.”

“Tch. Hardly,” Aquinea says. “And what is this rubbish about napping in the middle of the day?”

“It’s, uh… Dalish custom, my lady,” Lavellan says. “Elven cycles of the moon and such.”

“And now he is attempting to make light of this,” Aquinea says to Dorian.

“He tends to do that, yes,” Dorian says, and then he swats Lavellan’s back. “Go on, love. Get out of here while you still can.”

Despite that it feels slightly inappropriate to do so, Lavellan can’t deny the allure of passing out face-first in his bed right now—so he takes the out, getting to his feet with a smile. “Er… perhaps we can continue this at another time, my lady.”

“We shall have to,” Aquinea says. “Preferably one where my meddling son isn’t present.”

“No cornering my partner in his own house,” Dorian says. 

Aquinea releases a long-suffering sigh. “So many rules. Is he this demanding with you as well?”

“I demand that you not answer that,” Dorian says.

“I’m being informed that the answer is ‘no,’” Lavellan says, and then he nods respectfully. “Until later, my lady…”

And then he turns and makes quickly for the door before the conversation can continue. _Well,_ Lavellan thinks. _That… probably could’ve gone worse._

* * *

As he watches his mother critically stare down Lavellan, Dorian can’t help but think back to the first time he met the elf himself.

In some ways he’d known what to expect, of course—Dalish elf leading humans, glowing mark in his palm, etcetera—but he’d dreamed up a radically different picture. Some tall, mystical warrior, perhaps, well-versed in diplomacy, smooth-talking his way to the head of his faithful flock.

Compare that image to the elf who reluctantly walked into the Redcliffe Chantry with an air of _let’s get this shit over with._ A short little mite with unkempt hair and wide, nervous eyes, who nevertheless took one look at Dorian attempting to quietly wrangle some shades on his own, whipped out a pair of daggers and sailed into the fray, dispatching the demons with bloody precision. 

And then, rift closed, he’d stared at Dorian with patient disbelief for the duration of Dorian’s lengthy explanation, absent-mindedly scratching at his mess of curls with one finger. And then he’d huffed with resignation and tossed off some dry, inappropriate joke.

Dorian has never been one to resist inappropriate bait, of course. He’d joked back—some incredibly clever thing about fruit baskets—to which this very mysterious and inspiring Herald of Andraste had made a little sound that was quite clearly a snort. (All of this to the chagrin of the stone-faced Nevarran standing behind him.)

If you were to take their relationship as it stands now and trace back from its many sprouting branches of complexity and warm affection and hopes and fears and shared experience, following these things all the way until they bundle together and narrow into a point of origin, to nothing but a tiny, inconsequential seed in the ground—Dorian has no doubt the seed was that moment. That ill-timed snort.

There was something else that had surprised Dorian about Lavellan, although it came a bit later, after their traumatizing venture into Alexius’s future. It would’ve been difficult not to be friends after all that—the haunted glances they could only share with each other rather cemented this. 

But there was something else there—something Dorian wasn’t particularly accustomed to having in his life. At the time, the best word Dorian could think of for it was “acceptance.” In retrospect, he might rather call it “support.” Either way.

He particularly remembers offering his continued services to the Inquisition, which Lavellan instantly and gratefully accepted. But, yet again, Cassandra was not quite so convinced. While she took Lavellan off to the side for this conversation it must have been quite obvious that Dorian could still hear the whole of it.

“We must tread carefully here,” Cassandra had said. “Yes, I understand that he has helped us, but the man is still of Tevinter. At best he makes us appear to have questionable allies.”

“I'm not here to make judgments about people based on where they come from, Cassandra,” Lavellan said. “And I didn't think you were either, at that. Or else I'm not sure why you've thrown your support behind a Dalish elf of all people.”

“I am not suggesting that we reject his help out of hand. I am simply saying you should treat him with caution. While I am willing to believe he does not want Corypheus to succeed, that does not mean his motives are purely altruistic. He could have—”

Lavellan’s face had flashed with warning and he moved in closer to her, his voice going low and sharp: “Any chance we have of succeeding right now is entirely because of Dorian’s efforts. You do not know everything he’s just done for us, but believe me when I say that I trust him completely. I don’t want to hear anyone questioning his loyalty. We are incalculably lucky to have his help.”

Cassandra did not seem particularly impressed—let alone threatened—by this display. Nevertheless, she had sighed and said, “It was a warning, nothing more. But I suppose you must proceed as you see fit.”

At this point, Dorian couldn’t resist piping in: “Well, well! Is that ‘unconditional trust’ I hear? The south _is_ full of wonders.”

(Cassandra had simply thrown him a dirty look at that. Dorian supposed he would have to get used to that expression.)

As they dispersed from Haven’s Chantry, Lavellan had taken Dorian aside and said, “I’m sorry you heard that.”

“She isn’t wrong, you know,” Dorian said. “I could have plenty of sinister motives in store. Perhaps I wish to stop Corypheus only so that I can conquer the south for myself, hmmm? Or perhaps I am here on a secret mission to burn down every subpar Ferelden vinegar factory that dares to call itself a winery.”

“Well, that’s… a risk I suppose we’ll have to take,” Lavellan said. “I did mean what I said to her. I trust you, Dorian, and you’re very welcome to be here.”

“Placing stock in suspicious, albeit handsome Tevinters who conveniently show up at your doorstep? Not the wisest move, perhaps, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

Lavellan’s brow had furrowed. “Are you joking? Or do you actually mean that?”

“Which part? I do genuinely appreciate it. Although, come to think of it, I am also genuinely puzzled by your willingness to trust me.”

“Well, now, that’s just self-defeating, Dorian,” Lavellan had said.

Looking back, Dorian could see that as a seed as well: from that point forward, Lavellan’s stubborn, contrarian support of Dorian had never wavered. In fact, it had gotten even stronger and less rational as their relationship grew closer. 

Given the circumstances of his life before the Inquisition, Dorian had found this unquestioning support to be quite a change of pace. It’s why he’d always greatly appreciated his friendship with Lavellan—even before and above the romantic elements that eventually showed up on the table. 

Humour, loyalty and strange resolve. Dorian’s not sure how these core elements of Lavellan translate in Aquinea’s eyes. Or how he can possibly make her understand their value.

“So,” Aquinea says, once Lavellan has excused himself for his nap. “That’s the fabled man, is it?”

“Whatever criticisms you may have, I ask that you keep them to yourself,” Dorian says. “As long as you’re in my home you will accept that man. That’s non-negotiable.”

“And here I haven’t said an unkind word,” Aquinea says. “No need to be so sensitive.”

She takes a casual sip of her wine. Dorian studies her for a moment, then says, “Nothing? Really. You have nothing to say?”

“You have just told me that you don’t wish me to say anything. Perhaps you should make up your mind.”

“I only… no, you’re right. Good. Say nothing, then. That’s excellent.” 

They sit there in silence for a moment. Aquinea unconcernedly drinks her wine. Dorian drums his fingers on his knee.

At last, he sighs and says, “I suppose this goes without saying, but if anyone were to discover that he’s here…”

“I am not a simpleton, Dorian. Nor do I intend to get your lover killed while I’m here. That would be a terribly rude way to repay your hospitality.”

“Well… thank you,” Dorian says. “Then you still plan to stay here?”

“And why not?” Aquinea asks. “I have been here only a few hours and have already learned more about your life than you’ve written to me in years. Seems only logical that I stay and see what else I can discover, hm?”

“Ah. Wonderful.”

“Chin up, darling,” Aquinea says. “I’m certain we will form emotional bonds through this experience, or whatever it is that loving families do.”

“Right,” Dorian says. “Could we not just get slightly drunk together instead? Would that not be much simpler?”

“That does strike me as less of an ordeal, yes,” Aquinea says, and then she locks eyes with a passing servant, raising her wine glass an expectant little shake. “We shall require more of this…”

* * *

No matter the exhaustion leading up to it, Lavellan always has a difficult time falling asleep at midday. With the strength of the sun drifting through the bedroom curtain, his brain is attempting to convince him that it’s time to get up—despite how every inch of his body aches to get some rest. And even as he lies there, curled up under a blanket, eyes firmly shut, his mind continues to race with discomfiting speed—even more so as he grows increasingly frustrated at the prospect of not being able to sleep.

He winds up napping on and off all afternoon, tossing in spaces, occasionally dozing over the distraction of old letters and books. At some point he wakes with a pounding headache and downs a few glasses of water in a row. And then falls into an actual comfortable sleep, only to wake up needing to piss within an hour.

When he’s woken by the motions of Dorian getting into bed, the room completely dark about them, Lavellan has no earthly clue what time it might be.

“C’mere,” Lavellan mutters, and then he feels Dorian’s arms winding obligingly around him, pulling him in close and warm against Dorian’s chest. “Mmf. Good.”

Dorian drops a kiss on top of Lavellan’s head. “Did you manage any sleep?”

“On and off. Still exhausted, though...”

“You have been through a lot today, to be fair. Best to stay in bed with me tonight, hm?”

“Oh, well, clearly I was about to get up and go, but if you insist…” Lavellan rolls himself over so that they’re facing each other, his forehead against Dorian’s chin. “How about you? Good day?”

“I suppose so. As much as fielding several hours of my mother’s opinions can be considered ‘good.’”

“Is it difficult for you, having her here?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dorian says. “She can be a pain, but it’s not _difficult._ I’m used to her. And I have no particular quarrel with her—not anymore, at any rate.”

“None at all? Are you sure?”

“None worth hanging onto,” Dorian says. He pauses, idly stroking Lavellan’s hair. “When my father was angry, he would just shut you out. Refuse to even hear you. Mother’s never been like that. She is always… very much… herself—but she does let you speak, regardless of how severe her contempt may be. I’ve always found that comforting.”

“Hm,” Lavellan says, snuggling in, nosing against Dorian’s neck. “I suppose that’s something.”

“What do you say, then? What’s your impression of her?”

“Hmmm,” Lavellan says again.

There is a lengthy pause, to the point where Dorian begins to wonder if Lavellan is drifting off again.

Then, in a sleepy murmur, Lavellan says, “She’s _beautiful_.”

Dorian laughs. “Naturally. Where do you think I got it from?”

* * *

A city the size of Minrathous is inevitably rife with street markets—sweaty and humid, loud and buzzing, bursting with an abundance of colourful goods, teeming with people through every hour of daylight. 

In the beginning Endriel would hang around the edges of the market, afraid to squeeze into the thronging crowd and be touched by unfamiliar elbows. On this bright morning he is bravely soldiering between stands, standing his ground, peering appraisingly at the produce on offer. Lavellan feels downright proud of him.

“We’re going to need some kind of dried fruit,” Endriel says. “They wouldn’t be proper hearth cakes otherwise.”

“They won’t be proper hearth cakes anyway, considering we’re going to make them in that blighted fancy kitchen,” Lavellan says. 

“Then… these are going to be… Tevinter hearth cakes?” Endriel asks. “So we should use… figs?”

“Eugh,” Lavellan says. “Fig hearth cakes? That’s horrible. We have to do it.”

Endriel grins at him—then his eyes widen and he points at the next stall. “Oh! Currants, Lethallin!”

“Thank Sylaise,” Lavellan says. “…Maybe we should do half with currants, half with figs? I mean, we can’t just _not_ try Tevinter hearth cakes now that you’ve come up with them. What if they’re amazing?”

“What if they’re horrible?”

“I’ll, uh, just make Dorian eat them. He’s Tevinter… he has to like them.”

Lavellan jostles in for his turn with the vendor’s attention, coming away with healthy portions of dried figs and dried currants to add to the rest of their ingredients. He heads back to Endriel and says, “I think that’s all we need…”

Endriel doesn’t appear to hear him. He is staring across the market with a horrified expression. As soon as Lavellan notices this he stops in his tracks, dread blooming in his stomach. “Endriel? Ma dareth?”

Endriel barely whispers, “Soreli.”

“Sorry?”

“Soreli, it’s Soreli, she’s right there, she’s alive, look…”

Lavellan turns, trying to spot who Endriel might be talking about—there are so many people milling about that it’s hard to tell, but he seems to be indicating a group of elves clearly dressed in servants’ attire. “Oh! Is that someone you—?” 

But Endriel has already taken off at a run, leaving Lavellan behind in the crowd. “Fenedhis,” Lavellan says, and he rushes after Endriel, ducking past obstacles and inadvertently whacking elbows. “Sorry, sorry…”

The servants that Endriel is heading toward are poring over a table piled with resplendent cloths. They seem to be gathering their goods under the watchful eye of a well-dressed human—likely some form of apprentice, Lavellan thinks. He can see so many ways for this to go sideways. Maybe the overseer beats Endriel for interfering with his slaves, and then Lavellan will have to feed the man his own ass, which means someone calling for guardsmen, probably. Or maybe the overseer beats Endriel’s friend for talking out of turn, and then Endriel dies of guilt and crying-related dehydration…

Endriel slows his pace as he reaches the table. He creeps up on the near side of it and whispers, “Soreli?”

A woman in the group looks up—and her mouth falls open. “ _Endriel?_ ”

“Are you—” Endriel begins to ask, but the question is trampled over by the voice of the human overseer, who is already striding closer to them.

“Hey, slave, off with you! Who gave you permission to come meddle in our business? Where is your master? Do I need to punish you in their place?”

Endriel appears to be frozen, speechless with fear. The man takes a step toward him—and then Lavellan inserts himself hastily between them, bowing deferentially to this human, gazing hard at the ground—as is polite for servants. 

“My apologies, Ser,” Lavellan says. “We were asked to deliver a message, but we may have brought it to the wrong place. May I humbly ask who these people serve?”

“They serve Magister Valris, as should be obvious. What is the message?”

 _Oh,_ Lavellan thinks. _Valris. Great. Incredible._

What he says aloud is, “Ah. My apologies, then, we were mistaken. I must beg your forgiveness. We will not trouble you any further.”

Then Lavellan turns, takes Endriel firmly by the arm, and steers him around the table. As they pass by Soreli, Lavellan locks eyes with her and whispers, as softly as he can, “Halani tel’melana.” _We will help you later._

And then he continues on, hauling Endriel with him, despite the boy’s resistance. He’s not sure whether Endriel wants to go back or whether he’s just too shell-shocked to move.

“Come on, Lethallin,” Lavellan hisses. “Quickly. We shouldn’t leave an impression of our faces.”

“But,” Endriel says. “No, please, we can’t just leave her there, we have to help—”

“We can’t now. Not out in the open like this, we’d just make trouble for her,” Lavellan says. He drags Endriel safely around a few corners, then turns to him and squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I know who her master is. I should be able to find her.”

“You know who he is?” Endriel asks, wide-eyed. “W-what is he like? Is he… kind? Will she be…”

 _Kind?_ Lavellan thinks. What little he knows of Valris does not quite fit that definition. How is he supposed to describe the man in a way that won’t make Endriel break down completely?

But in these few seconds of hesitation Endriel has already drawn his own conclusions, and he is quite suddenly weeping into his palms. “Oh, no, Lethallin,” Lavellan says, throwing his arm around Endriel. “Tel’numin-ma… He’s not—I don’t think he’s like… the man you served before. I think he’s better than that. But I—I’m simply not sure. But I know how to find him, it’s all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Endriel hiccups, wiping his eyes. “I-it’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone from my clan, I thought... I’m just so afraid, every day I think about them, I wonder what they might be going through. To actually see one of my kin again, I just… Please, we have to help her, I can’t lose her again. I don’t want to go through that again, please.”

“It’s okay,” Lavellan whispers, giving Endriel a squeeze. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay. We’ll find her. I’m going to find her for you, I promise.”

* * *

Maevaris enters Dorian’s study with this declaration: “Prepare to be amazed, sweetheart.”

“Oh, good,” Dorian says. “Hubris. That always works out well for everyone, yes? Am I remembering that correctly?”

“What is this slander I’m hearing? It’s not hubris if it’s well-earned, is it?” 

“Remains to be seen, I suppose,” Dorian says. “Well? What have you got for me?”

“First things first,” Maevaris says, and she produces the nullifying runestone with a flourish.

Dorian studies it—nothing seems particularly different. “Yes, there it is. And?”

“This isn’t _it_ ,” Maevaris says. “Not the one you gave me. A new one, from scratch.”

At last Dorian sits right up, fascination ignited. “What! No… You made this?”

Maevaris hands it over to his eager scrutiny. “I finally heard back from that odd dwarven arcanist friend of yours. Her notes set my people on the right path, and now here we are! The first of our copies. And, incidentally, this one’s yours to keep.”

“Really? Are you certain?”

“You did lend me the one you recovered for my experiments. This is only a fair trade.”

“Well, thank you, truly,” Dorian says. “This is a fantastic gain, Mae… Does that mean you know how it works?”

“Not entirely, I’m afraid,” Maevaris says. “I hesitate to admit it, but some of Dagna’s notes are still over our heads. I brought you a copy of them, incidentally. I assumed you’d want to obsessively ponder the details.”

“I very much would,” Dorian says. “Well, thank you, in any case. This is excellent progress.”

“Now, what did I tell you? You are amazed as predicted. And here I haven’t even gotten to the fun part.”

“There’s still a fun part? Well, that’s exciting…”

“Recall what you wrote me in your last set of notes,” Maevaris says. “Even though magic can’t be cast in the area of effect, it can pass through the area undisturbed. That means the effect targets the ability of the caster, not the magic itself. It doesn’t reshape the magic like a southern templar might—it simply does a persistent sapping of a caster’s mana.”

“While I admit that my notes are breathtakingly brilliant,” Dorian says, “I did write them myself. I don’t need you to recite them back to me.”

“Hush,” Maevaris says. “It’s context. So, I asked my apprentice to do some experiments…”

“And? Don’t tell me she set her cloak on fire again.”

“Come now, she hasn’t done that in literal days,” Maevaris says. “No—Gala was experimenting with how we might get around the nullification effect once it’s cast on us. So she decided to test the utility of taking lyrium straight in the nullification field.” She sighs. “Downed half my supply. Nearly gave herself lyrium poisoning, the poor thing. Vomited prolifically into my hibiscus.”

“Oh, for the Maker’s sake.”

“I know. And here it’s flowering as well. Can you imagine? But on a brighter note, she did find us a rather inelegant solution for the time being.”

“Does it involve vomiting into shrubbery?”

“That part should be optional,” Maevaris says. “What she found is that, when in the process of drinking a lyrium potion, there is a brief moment where you can draw on the potion itself as your mana supply. Not enough for a swig to be useful—but she managed to cast a single spell in the nullification field while in the process of downing an entire bottle.”

Dorian has his temple pressed against his fist, his brow steadily wrinkling. “In the process. You mean, guzzling an entire lyrium potion with one hand, casting a spell with the other?”

“Precisely.”

“And this is our best solution, is it?”

“Inelegant and temporary, as I said,” Maevaris says, “but yes. Unless you have something better for me, Ser Withering Disdain.”

“No, I apologize—I am being ungrateful. Thank you, this is an excellent start. And I suppose I shall be relieved when I have to deliver myself from death in a similar… vomit-inducing fashion. How very dignified that moment will be…”

“You joke, but I’ve seen you vomit at least once,” Maevaris says. “You do have an incredibly dignified way about it.”

“Yet again, let us please not rehash the Winter Centennial. Some things are best left buried.”

“Or hidden in a ceremonial urn, in this case.”

Dorian points at the door. “You get out.”

Maevaris laughs and says, “Now, now. I’m only saying that your aim is very impressive.”

“As in, if all else fails, I should simply vomit in my would-be assassin’s direction?”

“There you are. Always look on the bright side, Dorian.”

* * *

In the front hall of their home, Lavellan gingerly pats Endriel’s back and asks, “Will you be all right?”

“I will be,” Endriel says. He has swallowed up his tears now and is just staring rather resolutely at the ground. “Just… I think I need… a little time to swallow this.”

“Of course,” Lavellan says. “Just come find me if you need anything.”

They part ways there, Endriel heading toward the back of the house while Lavellan goes for the stairs, mulling all of this over. He’d wanted to look into Valris anyway—but going after a Magister is always more dangerous than going after your average Altus. His jaunt to Severin’s estate was a clear reminder of that. But on the other hand—

“Elf.” 

Lavellan jumps with a surprised squawk. “Elgar’nan,” he gasps, clutching his chest.

Aquinea is standing in the doorway to the drawing room—well, _standing_ isn’t quite the term. If there is a way to lounge gracefully while being perfectly upright, that’s what she is currently doing. She is elegantly inhabiting this doorway as if she was carefully carved just to be there.

“What on earth was that sound?” Aquinea asks. “Is that some form of elven obscenity?”

“It’s, uh—just something I say,” Lavellan says, raking his hair absently back. “Elgar’nan, he’s one of the Dalish Creators, representing fatherhood, the sun, etcetera…”

“Should that not be considered blaspheming where you come from?”

“Not particularly,” Lavellan says. “And it’s been some time since I’ve revered Elgar’nan, anyway.”

“Indifferent blaspheming. I see.” She gestures to the room behind her. “Come. I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that a man who once led an army is not quite as fragile as my son appears to think he is. Let us have a quick chat without his interference, shall we? I imagine you won’t collapse under the pressure.”

“I mean… sure. Let’s.”

They stroll into the drawing room together, taking a seat across from each other on two separate sofas. For a moment they just look at each other, a tense silence spreading through the room.

“Teal,” Lavellan says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s, uh,” Lavellan says, “my favourite colour. In case you wanted to know.”

“Ah. I see. You are being funny.”

“Attempting to be. Not so sure about the execution.”

“Then at least you have some self-awareness,” Aquinea says. “Why don’t we get straight to the point?” 

“Certainly. What is the point?”

Aquinea appears to have two modes of attention. In the first, she has the air of being so bored by Lavellan’s existence that she can’t be bothered to look straight at him. In the second, she makes direct eye contact, levelling what feels like surgically precise scrutiny right at his face. Lavellan had thought the former was chilling, but the latter is currently giving it a run for its money.

She says, “I have not yet forgiven you.”

“Oh?” Lavellan says. “For… murdering the Pavus line?”

“My son is _mostly_ to blame for that, as he was so eager to point out,” Aquinea says. “No. You have your own acts to answer for.”

“Such as?”

Aquinea leans almost imperceptibly forward, but the motion is enough. It’s enough to freeze him in place. Enough to convey a world of silent, elegant threats.

She says, “You took my son into the Deep Roads.”

“I, uh.”

“The _Deep Roads_ , elf. And a fortress filled with demons in an inhospitable desert. And civil-war-torn Orlesian countryside. And Maker knows what other dangerous places you have dragged him to across the south…”

“We also, uh,” Lavellan swallows, “stayed in a very nice room at the Winter Palace…”

“And a spot of frilly Orlesian pomposity makes up for it, does it? You dragged my son through miles of darkspawn-filled caverns beneath the ground. If you claim to care so much for his well-being, how do you justify that?”

“It was his choice to come with me,” Lavellan says. “And he was… quite capable of managing it. He’s incredibly talented. I’m sure I wouldn’t have survived myself if he hadn’t been there with me.”

“So, then, my son must be put at risk to safeguard you from your own incompetence?”

Lavellan is silent for a moment. “I mean… kind of?”

“Ridiculous. And this is what you would have told me, had he perished in the Deep Roads? You would have written this to his grieving mother in a letter?”

“No, no… I would never have let that happen, my lady. I would do anything to protect Dorian, anything at all. I’d give my life for him, honestly.”

She scoffs. “You would have given your life for him. You, the so-called divine prophet of that entire outfit, would have given your highly priced life for that of some Tevinter tagalong?”

“My advisors might not have been thrilled,” he says, “but, yes, I would have. I still would. Any day, any price.”

Aquinea has that look on her face again, as if she can’t decide whether to be skeptical or disgusted. “Tell me, what exactly has my son done to produce this level of devotion in someone like you? Doesn’t your kind naturally detest humans? It all seems rather irrational.”

“Well, I… happen to be a fairly terrible Dalish…”

“Of which I suppose I should take your casual blasphemy as an example.”

“For a start,” Lavellan says. “We don’t all hate humans, anyway, not quite. My clan has always traded with them.”

“You appear to be doing a touch more than ‘trading’ here. Unless you intend that as some unfortunate metaphor.”

“Er… no,” he says. “I’ll admit that Dorian’s not quite who I expected to have in my life—but I’m sure you don’t need me to explain to you everything that’s good about him. Dorian is… He’s unlike anyone else I’ve ever met.”

“Well, _that_ much is certain,” Aquinea says. 

It’s impossible to tell whether she means this as an insult or a compliment.

But, then, just the fact that it could conceivably be interpreted as an insult makes Lavellan bristle. He wrestles with his good sense for a moment, then says, “May I ask you something, my lady?”

“If you must.”

“Did you know what his father planned to do to him? That… ‘ritual’? Were you aware?”

He’d been prepared for this question to ratchet the tension straight up, but Aquinea seems to be as unruffled by this as everything else. “Did I ‘know’?” she asks. “I knew that my husband intended to ‘bring our son into line.’ I did not object to the concept. Neither did I realize the method he planned to employ. The man kept much from me, including far less repugnant things than that.”

“And what would you have done, if you had known?”

Aquinea chuckles. “What a foolish question.”

“Is it?” Lavellan asks, his chest getting tight against his will. “Tell me why it came so close, then. Why did Dorian have to get out of that situation by himself? Why couldn’t he rely on you to help him?”

“I cannot answer that, as I was not present when it happened,” Aquinea says. “And my son was a grown man who could well take care of himself.”

“Against that? That level of betrayal? He needed you.”

“Did he? He appears to have handled it rather aptly without me.”

“ _Handled_ it?” Lavellan says, and he’s fully bristling now, it must be visible, he can feel his face heating up, his fingers doing that nervous clench. Aquinea seems mildly interested in this development; she is studying his face again. “Is that what you call it?”

“You would call it something else?”

“He… _came through_ it, sure. He’s incredible, he could find a way through anything—but he shouldn’t have needed to, you should’ve been there. You’re his mother. Do you know how all of that hurt him? Do you even understand?”

In a rather bored tone, she says, “Do I ‘understand’? You think me blind and incompetent?”

“I’m just asking why it doesn’t seem to be a concern of yours.”

“A concern? It has already happened. What would you have me do about it now?” 

“How about show a little remorse, for one thing?”

“And for whom should I do that? What purpose would that serve?”

“I just… I think Dorian could stand to see it.”

Aquinea quirks a judgmental brow. “And he asked you to tell me this, did he?”

“Uh,” Lavellan says, suddenly feeling the crushing weight of infinite regret. What _would_ Dorian do if he were to behold this conversation? Die of embarrassment? Set Lavellan on fire? “No. He most definitely did not.”

“Then perhaps you ought not to bring it to me for him,” Aquinea says. “My son is amply capable of standing up for himself.”

 _He shouldn’t have to be so capable,_ Lavellan wants to say. _He shouldn’t have had to suffer a single day in his life that made him question his worth. He shouldn’t feel the need to defend it to you or anyone else._

But he attempts to redirect himself from the track of ‘things that would embarrass Dorian’ and instead says, “And did he ask you to speak to me about the Deep Roads?”

Aquinea actually laughs at that—short and dry, but clearly a laugh. “Touché, elf.”

“I mean… perhaps it’s the same impulse,” Lavellan says. “I love Dorian deeply. It pains me to think about what he went through, and—I just want him to be happy. And safe. Even if those things aren’t particularly in my control. And even if he might not particularly need my help with them.”

“Now you are attempting to find common ground with me.” 

For one terrifying moment, Lavellan is keenly aware of the fact that he is a dishevelled Dalish elf speaking to a powerful upper-class mage wearing the finest, most perfectly embellished robes he’s ever seen in his entire life.

But he’s never particularly let this sort of thing stop him before—so he just says, “Is it working?”

“Ha,” Aquinea says. “We shall have to see about that.”

“That’s not a ‘no,’ at least. I’ll take it.”

“Very wise,” Aquinea says. “Tell me something. What if I had told you I did approve of my husband’s actions? What might you have done?”

Lavellan’s brows go up. He has the distinct impression of having one bare toe hovering over a landmine. But, then—she did ask…

Lavellan gathers up the burbling sparks of his hypothetical anger and tries to organize them into an eloquent sentence: “I would… first, I’d have a very extensive list of things to yell at you in great detail. And then I would throw you right out of this house.”

“You think you would succeed at that, do you?”

He smirks with one corner of his mouth and says, “Trust me.”

For a brief moment Aquinea actually smirks back at him.

Then she lounges back into her less attentive state of expression and says, “Very well, elf—we are finished here. You may go.”

Lavellan registers that he is being dismissed from his own drawing room about three seconds after he has obediently gotten to his feet. “I… take it I’ve answered your questions, then?”

“In a fashion,” Aquinea says. “Mostly I was seeking your spine. Good that you’ve shown it to me at last.” And then she directs a piercing shot of eye contact at him. “There shall be stauncher opponents than I to this relationship of yours. If you wish to be here, to protect it, I suggest you keep that spine firm.”

“I, uh,” Lavellan says. “Thank you?”

“Tch. Thank me for stating the obvious?” She makes a dismissive gesture. “Now—do run along and tell that servant of yours to fetch me some wine. I’m completely parched.”

“I mean, we do have water, if…”

Aquinea scoffs loudly. “I beg your pardon? I shall be charitable and take that remark as ignorance rather than insult. Now, off with you.”

* * *

Dorian is still in his study, reading Dagna’s and Maevaris’s notes intently, cross-referencing them with various tomes scattered about his desk, scribbling down theoretical equations, when Lavellan comes into the bedroom to clean up. Dorian catches him passing by the doorway between the two rooms and calls out, “Oh, there you are—could I have a word with you, darling?”

“What about?” Lavellan asks, padding into the study, thoughtlessly plopping to a sitting position on Dorian’s desk, ass on his notes as usual.

Dorian picks up the nullification runestone and shows it to him. “Here. A new one. Mae’s actually figured out how to make them.”

“Has she! That’s great news, Dorian.”

“Mm,” Dorian says, and he pokes it into Lavellan’s stomach. “Take it.”

“…Me? Don’t you need it?”

“I already have magic. I can’t see why I would need to take away someone else’s magic to stand against them.” 

“But I, on the other hand, am so incompetent that…” 

“Oh, for… no. You know I don’t mean that. But you are in a country filled with powerful mages, with only a single dagger for protection against everything they can do. Can’t you see why that would worry me? Please, love, just take it. It would comfort me to know you have this in hand.” 

“Are you sure, Dorian? You don’t need it yourself?” 

“Incredibly so. Imagine—knowing you have this, I might even be able to stop worrying about you.” 

“Ha,” Lavellan says. “Trying to stem the tide of grey hairs, are you?” 

Dorian narrows his eyes. “We do not speak of those.”

“But they’re so _incredibly adorable_ ,” Lavellan says, and then he bends down and kisses Dorian right on his unimpressed frown.

“You are a lunatic.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Maker knows why,” Dorian says, and then he gives Lavellan’s thigh a swat. “Right, get your ass off my desk. I have much more work to do. And your ass is incredibly distracting.”

“You think _my_ ass is distracting? Have you seen yours?”

“Well, I don’t generally plant mine directly on top of your business.”

“I wish you would,” Lavellan says with a downright suggestive grin, which makes Dorian laugh aloud. Then Lavellan obediently hops off the desk. “What are you working on, anyway?”

Dorian indicates pages of magical notation strewn across his desk, all of which continues to look like meaningless frenzied scribbling to Lavellan’s eyes. “Attempting to reverse-engineer this nullification. Find an off switch, so to speak. It should be doable with everything I know now, but something’s just not lining up. It’s driving me mad.”

“You’ll get it,” Lavellan says. “You’re the smartest mage I know.”

Dorian chuckles. “I would generally agree, but when it comes to this particular field, I’m not nearly as—” And then he looks up as if something’s occurred to him. “Hm!”

“There, you see?” Lavellan says, as he strolls back for the bedroom. “You’ll have it in no time.”

* * *

Dorian locates his mother sitting in the guest bedroom, enchanting a scroll of some kind, the spell lighting up her face with a soft glow. Like everything else she does, she makes this intricate and involved process look effortless.

When it comes to magical ability, Dorian thinks, he has cleanly inherited half of his father and half of his mother. Everything according to plan, he supposes.

From his father comes a certain tempestuousness—a tendency to get passionately absorbed, to be easily carried away by what’s in front of him. Aquinea, by contrast, is all patience and precision. And the fields of study that she excels in the most—healing, enchantments—are the very ones that bored and frustrated a young Dorian to tears. 

But where Halward could be single-minded in his pursuits, Aquinea has always been open. She sees the worth of questions, even if she finds many of them to be stupid. She encourages that they be asked. She enjoys answering them. And she revels in asking difficult ones even more.

Dorian feels very lucky indeed that his own Pavus intensity is tempered by that Thalrassian curiosity. Makes for a slightly more balanced human being, he thinks.

“Hard at work, I see,” Dorian says as he approaches the desk. “Everything all right up here?”

“As well as it can be with this décor.”

“Now, I did suggest you might be more comfortable staying elsewhere…”

“Alas, it seems this is the burden I must bear in order to spend any time at all with my negligent son.”

“I shall take that as a ‘thank you, Dorian, I am quite enjoying my stay.’”

“It certainly has been interesting, I will say that.” She begins to carefully roll up the scroll. “Your elf snapped at me today.”

“Did he now!”

“Mm. Like an eager puppy. He seems to think you need defending. Rather amusing, the idea that a man of your talents should need the protection of a one-armed elf without magic.”

Dorian smirks. “He does tend to worry unnecessarily. Still, I'd keep an eye on him if I were you. He's surprisingly deadly.”

“I have heard the rumours,” she says. “I must say, this… ‘courtship’ of yours is not quite what I expected.”

“Dare I ask what you did expect?”

“You and the elven prophet of the south? I assumed what you were after was part spectacle, part influence. What else would there be?” She pauses, studying him coolly. “But now? This arrangement means there cannot be any spectacle. And he’s removed himself from any influence that he might offer you. So what remains?”

“Perhaps the fact that I genuinely love him?” 

Several full seconds after speaking this aloud, it occurs to Dorian that this is the closest he’s ever come to verbally expressing that particular sentiment—and here Lavellan isn’t even present. He idly wonders if Lavellan will ever hear him say it.

“As I said,” Aquinea says, “not what I expected.”

“And not what you wanted. I am well aware.”

“What I _wanted?_ Darling, no path I’ve taken in life has had a single thing to do with what _I_ wanted. That was always utterly beside the point.”

“Ah, yes. The expectations of the older generation. Such a burden, aren’t they?”

“Not for you, I shouldn’t think. You are uncommonly practised at ignoring them,” Aquinea says. “Why, if I’d abandoned my senses to pursue my own aims the way you have, I might have saved myself a lifetime of reputable misery. Is it any wonder you infuriate me so?”

“Now, my dear mother, that’s almost starting to sound like acceptance. Surely you aren’t going sentimental on me.”

“Perish the thought,” Aquinea says. “I simply can’t be bothered any longer. We’ve fought enough for something that will clearly never be.”

“Then are you saying you’re giving up? Setting me free to ruin my own life, etcetera?”

“Granted, you have quite thoroughly ruined the life we wanted you to have,” Aquinea says, “but that’s hardly a new development. Your own life, however? That remains to be seen. At the very least, no one can accuse you of being… unambitious.”

“How kind of you to notice.”

“And whatever it is you’re playing at now, you do seem devoted to it.” Aquinea turns to him, giving him that scrutinizing eye contact. “Tell me this, Dorian. Is this what you want, this relationship? Are you happy like this?”

 _Is this how I want it?_ Dorian thinks. _I do wish he and I could live together more openly. But am I happy with_ him? _The one person in the world with whom I can just exist—who doesn’t require me to put on a performance for him? I don’t know if ‘happy’ covers it._

What Dorian has here is unusual and doesn’t map on to any conventional model of relationship success that he’s aware of, but still—Dorian has a place to try to change what’s important to him, and his partner has a place to do the same, and in between those roles they both play they can come home and just be themselves with each other. With their daily routine. With “good morning, I love you.” What’s not to be happy about there?

“Yes,” he says, “I daresay that I am.”

“Seems a novelty in this wretched place,” Aquinea says. “Then you may as well make the most of it.”

“I never. Now I know you’re getting soft, Mother.”

“Do not test me, darling, or I may have to prove otherwise.”

Dorian laughs, then says, “Well, then, before we’re forced to have some form of emotional breakthrough… I had actually hoped to discuss something with you, if you have a moment.”

“Oh?”

Dorian lays his collected notes on the nullification across her desk. “We know how to implant this effect in a runestone,” he says, “but I can’t work out how to cast something that will disable it. What am I missing?”

Aquinea leans in, running her eyes from page to page, her brows increasingly raising the more she reads. “You’ve put quite a bit of work in here, Dorian.”

“We’ve been at it for months, yes. But I’m obviously missing something—I must be.”

“Mm. Trust my brilliant, impatient son to break new ground while ignoring an incredibly mundane matter of process.” She taps an equation in the middle. “What is this?”

“Well, that’s—that’s…” Dorian stares at it, narrowing his eyes. “ _Oh_.”

“You’re welcome, darling,” Aquinea says.

* * *

Lavellan soon finds himself standing at one end of the hallway, nullification runestone in hand, activating it on Dorian’s order. Dorian, meanwhile, is standing all the way down at the other end of the hall—just outside the field of effect. 

It takes Dorian a few attempts, but on the third try he works it out—a sparking energy from his fingers and the runestone’s glow instantly dies away. “Ha! There we are. Simple. Well… simple-esque.”

“That’s brilliant, love,” Lavellan says. “But, er—not to rain on your parade here, but if you need magic to do that…”

Dorian sighs. “Yes, I know,” he says, digging out a lyrium potion, strolling down the hallway so they can stand in more comfortable speaking distance. “That would be our rather undignified step two… Once more, if you would?”

Lavellan reactivates the runestone. Just to be sure, Dorian attempts to conjure up a few sparks—but the air in his palm remains lifeless and empty. “Ugh. It’s still such an unnerving feeling, being without magic. So very… impotent.”

“Funny, I’ve never felt particularly impotent,” Lavellan says, with an eyebrow wiggle that gets him an unimpressed look back. “Come on, look, we have so much in common right now. Don’t you like being one of us non-magic plebs?”

Dorian shivers. “No, thank you. Truly, you are a brave man to venture through this world without the constant ability to set everything on fire. I don’t know how you stand it.”

“Well, I tend to carry pointy objects around, myself.”

“I suppose that is one strategy,” Dorian says, uncorking his lyrium potion. “Right. Let’s hope I do this correctly the first time so I don’t have to drink eighteen of these and vomit on your lovely little feet.”

“I would… appreciate if we could avoid that, yes…”

Dorian raises his right hand, attempting to cast the spell in it, feeling nothing but flat reality weighting down his palm. Then he takes a deep breath and throws back the entirety of the lyrium potion—and as he gulps it down he feels an anxious potentiality flickering in his hand, and he just barely manages to seize on it and toss the spell at the runestone as he finishes swallowing. 

This time the runestone doesn’t just go dull—it sparks, like it’s been shorted out, and Lavellan drops it from his hand, springing back with an “ _ow_.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, are you hurt?” Dorian asks, hurrying over to grasp Lavellan’s hand in his and turn it palm-side up. “I wonder why it did that…”

“No, I’m fine, sorry,” Lavellan says. “Just a little shock.”

“That’s a relief. You only have one of these left, after all. I’d feel awful if I somehow blew it off.”

“I would prefer the foot-vomiting, really,” Lavellan says. He lets Dorian kiss his palm—unable to suppress a smirk at the tickly feel of it—and then takes his hand back, picking up the runestone from the floor. “Well, what do you know. You _can_ do it! This is brilliant news, Dorian.”

“There’s still much we don’t know, evidently. But it’s a start.”

“I’m just relieved you might be a bit safer now.” Lavellan nudges Dorian with his elbow. “How about a cuddle while you tell me how you managed it?”

Dorian trails Lavellan back into their bedroom where Lavellan sets the runestone with his things, then throws a leg up on the bed, carelessly batting a series of fine pillows straight to the floor, then flopping onto his back. 

“Why… why would you do that to our pillows?” Dorian asks. “What are you, a petulant housecat?”

“We have way too many of them, that’s why. I need space, Dorian. Space for all of my affections. Now get in here.”

“Ugh. Yes, ‘too much comfort,’ that is definitely a thing. I suppose a muddy stretch of pillow-free ground would suit you better…” Dorian collects up the pillows from the floor, then commences tossing them one by one at Lavellan’s face.

“No— _no_ ,” Lavellan laughs, batting the first two out of midair, only to have the third one hit him square in the nose. “This is not cuddling!”

“One of these days I shall convince you to appreciate fine textiles, just you wait,” Dorian says. He dumps the last two pillows onto Lavellan’s person, then climbs into bed among them. Lavellan snuggles into Dorian’s shoulder, shutting his eyes with a sigh, as Dorian loosely winds an arm about him. 

It’s funny, Dorian thinks, but with his mother about it’s suddenly easier to remember how it was in Tevinter before all this—without this significant hassle about, making him worry, disturbing the order of his bed. 

Dorian had nearly forgotten how full of empty spaces that life was. The space just before opening one’s eyes in the morning, for instance—a space to be flooded with dread. Or the space before bed, to be filled with regrets and anxieties. Or any short reprieve throughout a day spent alone—lifting his head from his studies, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

And now there is this elf in the place, who occupies his line of sight in those moments—lifting his head back and shooting him a grin. Nuzzling his way into every space and filling them with warmth. 

Funny that he should be able to share his appreciation with his mother, of all people, and not with Lavellan himself.

Dorian has a sudden painful urge to rectify this, even if he can already tell his mouth won’t be particularly compliant. So he takes one step back from the words and says them this way: “Funny thing. This evening I told my mother that I love you.”

“Oh?” Lavellan says, looking sleepily up at him, cheek smushed on Dorian’s shoulder. “How did she take that?”

“She seemed to find it… interesting. From an academic standpoint, at the very least.”

Lavellan snorts. “I see.”

He hasn’t reacted at all to the sentiment. Dorian pauses, then asks, “Do you not find it odd that I’ve now said that to her before ever managing to say it to you?”

“Huh? I’ve missed something. Said what?”

“That I love you.”

Lavellan is quiet for a moment, gazing at Dorian. The vulnerability of the phrase practically vibrates in the air between them and Dorian feels his throat stupidly, illogically constrict with embarrassment.

Then Lavellan smiles at him, moving in closer. “I know that,” he murmurs, “you massive idiot.”

And there’s the relief. Dorian can’t help but grin back—trust either of them to ruin a serious moment, he thinks. “Oh, I see. That’s the reception I get for my most tender and heartfelt feelings, is it? Shall I go back to being eternally facetious, then?”

Lavellan takes Dorian’s cheek in his hand. “I just meant that you didn’t need to clarify, love. You already tell me that in plenty of other ways without using those particular words. Though, if you _want_ to start saying them, I certainly wouldn’t object.”

“I’m not so sure now, honestly,” Dorian says. “The phrase is lacking a certain… insincere guile.”

Lavellan laughs, clunking their foreheads together. “Well, I love you, regardless of what you say. I love you and your stupid, handsome, insincere face.”

“Evidently there’s something the matter with you,” Dorian says. “I do wonder at your patience, considering you have no hint of this problem yourself. You make that cliché phrase sound effortlessly sincere. Could you teach me, perhaps? How does one go about that?”

“Teach you sincerity? Elgar’nan, there’s a tall order…”

“Come now. You can manage. I’m an excellent student.”

Lavellan studies Dorian’s face. “Well, first of all… you have to… stop being quite so concerned with how you’re going to look.”

“You what? Stop… being concerned… with how I look? Have you _seen me?_ How does one get their mind off _this_ , exactly?”

Lavellan snorts—then outright giggles. “Don’t ask me! I’ve been distracted by your looks for about five continuous years now.”

“It has been that long, hasn’t it? Maker, we are getting old.” He takes Lavellan’s chin and says, “Well, for a man so extensively distracted you’ve gotten an awful lot accomplished. Just imagine how productive you’ll be when I lose all of my looks to the ravages of time.”

“Not going to happen,” Lavellan says, ruffling a finger through the greying hair at Dorian’s temple. “If anything you’re getting even more handsome to me.”

“Oh, right. You’re insane. I’d nearly forgotten.”

“And yet you love me,” Lavellan says. “Apparently.”

“Do I, now? I don’t recall ever saying that.”

Lavellan snorts at that, then snuggles back in, laying his head on Dorian’s chest. “You are so incredibly stupid.”

Dorian grins at him, stroking a hand through his curls. “And yet you love me, hm?”

Lavellan rolls his eyes and says, “Yes. I definitely do .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know this chapter used the phrase “persistent sap” in an unrelated context but it’s a pretty good summary of this series tbh 
> 
> Anyway, everything is fixed now I guess! 
> 
> Next time: haha nope. More dangerous hassles for everyone.


	5. Passing Notes (Try Not to Die)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat disastrous date.
> 
> AND/OR: In which an assassin and a necromancer probably have some weird turn-ons??

Lavellan rolls over, half-awake, paws blindly across the mattress—and feels nothing under his hand but empty blankets and unnecessary pillows. 

Cracking an eye open confirms it: Lavellan is in bed alone. It takes a minute or two of blearily trying to orient himself in space and comprehend the existence of the universe before he at last notices the neatly handwritten note propped up on the nightstand:

_Letter came for you! See you tonight. Sorry for not saying goodbye; couldn’t bear to wake you. You were making those adorable nug sounds again. xx_

Lavellan squints at this, then reaches over, taking the note, holding it closer to his nose, reading it over again.

“I do not make nug sounds,” he mutters to no one in particular.

The letter waiting below Dorian’s note must have arrived within a letter to Dorian himself—as they always do. The letters to Dorian tend to be written on the official letterhead of the Viscount of Kirkwall, whereas the notes to Lavellan are usually stuck between the pages on smaller, less official stationery. This one reads:

> Hey kid,
> 
> Did you know it only takes one little fire to make Bran weep? Just something I learned today. Of course, the fire was in his filing cabinet, so that might’ve had something to do with it.
> 
> Seeker’s been asking about you. I told her I don’t know how to reach you right now – because if she finds out where you are she’ll never be able to keep it a secret. And if she finds out that I know where you are, well, that’s a six-week nagging headache at least. Not going through all that again. No thank you.
> 
> But she does want to talk to you. Any ideas? I could tell her to send a letter to Sparkler that he’ll send on to you, but that might be too risky. Kind of contradicts the whole ‘you guys are no longer romantically involved’ thing. And I don’t want her putting the pieces together and coming over to beat down your door. You know she would.
> 
> I’d tell you what she wants to talk about but when I asked her she just put on that serious face and said, “That is for his ears alone.” Never a good sign. You want me to just tell her you died after all? I wouldn’t blame you.
> 
> I’ve been working on our joke, by the way. What do you think:
> 
> “The Herald of Andraste and the Viscount of Kirkwall walk into a bar. The Herald asks the Viscount, ‘You need a hand running Kirkwall?’ And the Viscount says, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to lose my head here.’”
> 
> I know. “Ugh.” Work in progress.
> 
> Sparkler treating you all right? Do me a favour and get yourselves both drunk on something strong and unpleasant tonight. Just pretend Buttercup and I are there to be disgusted by the inevitable public displays of affection.
> 
> Hope the four of us get to make a few bad decisions again in person sometime (but if we could skip the public displays of affection that’d be great, thanks).
> 
> Take care of yourself, 
> 
> Varric

By the end of this note Lavellan finds himself grinning fondly. Although there would be no easy way to currently have the four of them in one place even without the fact of Lavellan himself playing a metaphorical ghost, it’s still bittersweet to remember how difficult he’s made it to gather his friends together for a few drinks.

Still, at least he can correspond with them. And laugh at the things they cram in the mail for him. He has no idea how Endriel must feel, moored in this place without any contact with his former kin.

After loosely dressing himself, Lavellan wanders through the house until he finds Endriel, who is sitting in the kitchen, distractedly trimming the stems from some figs.

“Good morning,” Lavellan says, leaning up on the counter next to him. “Ma dareth?”

Endriel looks up, but can’t seem to muster a smile. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept all night. “I’m all right, Lethallin…”

“Yesterday was a shock, wasn’t it? You must be awfully worried,” Lavellan says, and Endriel nods morosely. Lavellan pats his shoulder and says, “Chin up, Lethallin. I’m going to go poke around the markets today, see what gossip I can dig up on Valris. With any luck I can make a plan for this week.”

Endriel straightens up quickly. “You will? Honestly? Is it not too dangerous? Do you think you can?”

“That… well, we’ll see, but I’ll try my very best.”

Endriel sets down his knife and fig and throws his arms around Lavellan, squeezing him into a hug—a decidedly new development. He whispers, “Ma serannas, Falon. Enansal-ma.”

 _You are a blessing._ Lavellan tries not to laugh at that. Why do people always seem to think that about him? “Come on,” he says, patting Endriel’s back. “Of course. It’s nothing.”

Endriel withdraws now, rubbing an eye, shaking his head. “It’s everything to me, Lethallin.”

Lavellan feels his heart ache. If there’s any way to get Endriel’s friend back to him, he desperately hopes he can find it. But, then, the more he thinks about the introduction of Soreli into their lives, the more he’s been ruminating over the various complications.

“Let me ask you something,” Lavellan says. “If I do find Soreli… She might well want to go back to Ferelden with whoever else I’m able to rescue. Would you want to go with her if she does?”

Endriel pauses for a long time. Then, quietly, he says, “I suppose it wouldn’t be very safe to bring her here, would it? Maybe you could just give her a note from me. Would you be able to…?”

“Of course I would—but you could go with her, Endriel. The ships never come by that fast. I could come and fetch you once I have everyone else safely gathered.”

“But I don’t want to go, Lethallin. I want to stay here.”

“Are you sure?” Lavellan asks. “Given everything that’s happened to you here… Being in Ferelden might be easier on you. Don’t you think?”

Endriel hesitates. “Would you prefer it if I went?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I’m just afraid we might be stopping you from healing by hanging on to you here.”

Endriel shakes his head vehemently. “No. Not stopping. Helping.”

“You think so?”

“Lethallin, what happened to me should not happen to anyone. But it still does. If anyone is going to stop that, it’s people like you and Lord Pavus. I can’t do what you do, or what Lord Pavus does, obviously… I’m just a craftsman. Well, an apprentice craftsman. Well, sort of, I mean, I didn’t finish my apprenticeship, really, but… What you do is so important. I’m—proud, honestly, to live in your house and to help you. If I can even help you just the smallest bit… I’m happy with that. It feels like… something. Something against what happened to me. I can’t think of anything better.”

“You are definitely very helpful,” Lavellan says. “More than a small bit.”

“Then that’s all I want. Honestly.”

Lavellan thinks on this for a moment, then says, “Remember that beautiful rope ladder you made for me? The other day I used it to save a woman and her baby.”

Endriel’s entire face brightens. “Really?”

“You’ve more than helped us here, Lethallin. Even if you left today, you’ve already made a huge difference in many lives. You can be proud of that.”

“But I want to help more. However I can, I want to help.”

“Then we’re lucky to have you,” Lavellan says. “But you’re also allowed to change your mind any day. All right? There’s nothing cowardly about wanting to go home.”

“Okay, Lethallin. I understand.”

“And I promise, if I do manage to get Soreli to the outflow, I’ll come get you and bring you by there to say hello before she departs. You should at least get that much, yes?”

And just like that Endriel is crying again. “Ma serannas. I would love that.”

“I’ll do my best,” Lavellan says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Now—I need to get out there and collect some gossip. Wish me luck, yes?”

“Good luck!” Endriel says genuinely, wiping his eyes, now wearing a little bit of a smile. “I’m sure you can do it. Tevinters love to gossip.”

“I know, right?” Lavellan says. “Dorian even says it’s a critical part of working in the Magisterium. Talking regular shit about your colleagues. Can you believe that?”

“That sounds… stressful,” Endriel says. “How does Lord Pavus ever get anything done?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

* * *

Dorian feels like Sera has hollowed his head out with a spoon and poured an entire jar of bees into the gap.

He can’t remember a more difficult day in the Magisterium than this. So many unproductive quarrels—people shouting at each other with beautifully constructed arguments that are flawed only in the sense that they do not address each other’s points in the least. Contentious vote after even more contentious vote with near-rioting in the chambers. On days like today Dorian is sure this country of his is run by an angry sack of cats. He half wonders why these people have never just banded together and voted to dispense with politics and set the entire building on fire.

When he looks up to see Severin striding toward his seat, however, Dorian is slightly taken aback. Severin’s moderate faction of Magisters rarely sticks their necks out enough to venture actual opinions—they just sit around uselessly and frown at everyone else for daring to have them. What disagreement would he possibly have with Dorian in particular?

“Can I help you?” Dorian asks.

In a low tone, Severin asks, “What do you know?”

Dorian laughs. “Well, that’d take some time to list! Would you care to be more specific?”

“I do not have time to play games with you,” Severin says. “You were asking questions—suspiciously interested questions about the defenses to my house. Two nights later, something _incredibly important_ is taken from me. Does that sound like a coincidence to you?”

 _Oh. That._ Dorian sits back, feigning a convincing amount of shock. “ _What?_ Tell me this isn’t about Curach’s ring. I doubt if the thing even exists, frankly.”

“No. This has nothing to do with Curach, as I’m sure you well know.”

“So, you think I’ve taken up cat burgling now? What exactly is it that you think I’ve stolen?”

Severin’s eyes are dangerously narrowed. “You expect me to believe you had no involvement in this?”

“You can believe what you like, I suppose. But I have absolutely no idea what you’re on about.” 

And then Dorian just sits there, arms folded, affecting the most neutral expression he has, as Severin scrutinizes every corner of his face for a telltale hint of dishonesty. 

At last Severin says, “If I’ve accused you falsely, I apologize. But if you are behind this then I shall find out. Mark my words.”

“Of course,” Dorian says. “No offense taken. And for what it’s worth, I do hope you recover whatever it is you’ve lost.”

Severin looks at him for a moment, suddenly seeming just resigned. “I… yes. Thank you.”

The elderly Magister turns and strides off, decidedly deflated. Dorian watches him go with a dispassionate expression. _Well… that’s something. What on earth have you done to the man, darling?_

“Having a quarrel?” asks Valris behind him—at the mere sound of his voice Dorian slumps with impatience. 

“A one-sided quarrel, it would seem,” Dorian says. “Don’t ask me what’s gotten up his trousers, I have no idea.”

Valris chuckles with satisfaction before he can even finish his joke, which is: “Aren’t you meant to be the expert on what goes on in other men’s trousers?”

Dorian slides a steely, unimpressed gaze over to Valris’s smug face. “Well, I do have standards.”

“That is most certainly not the rumour I’ve heard.”

“Oh? I had no idea you were so intrigued by what I do in other men’s trousers. Would you like a detailed account?”

At that, Valris scoffs, then strides away, as if he’s suddenly far too dignified for this sort of conversation. _Imbecile,_ Dorian thinks.

He gathers up his pages of feverishly scribbled notes from the day’s work, pawing into his robes so he can find space to stuff them in there, intending to review them at his desk later. But stuck within his robes he finds something unfamiliar—a scrap of paper he doesn’t remember placing in there. 

Dorian plucks it out with a curious frown, unfolds it, and reads:

 _AR LATH MA_

…followed by a doodle of a leaping Halla with heart eyes.

Dorian just stares at it. Then, in spite of himself, he laughs aloud. “For the love of… what is this?”

“What’s what?” asks Gallius’s voice.

Dorian spins about in his chair, stuffing the note nonchalantly back into his robes. _Do I have a sign affixed to my back today? ‘Come bother Dorian, it’ll be fun’…_ “Ah… just a joke by one of my servants, I think. What can I do for you, Gallius?” 

Gallius says, “Oh, I was just wondering—have you been to see that merchant I told you about yet, to ask him about the Herald Inquisitor? Only, I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be in town… I’d hate for you to miss your chance.” 

If there’s ever been a more transparent attempt to trick him into some compromising blackmail situation, Dorian isn’t sure what it is. And if there is a moment in which Dorian could possibly have _less_ patience to deal with such a thing, he’s not sure what that could be either.

Before he can think better of it, he pulls this out of his ass: “Oh, not to worry. I’ve already spoken to him.” 

Gallius pauses. “You have? But…” 

“I’m afraid curiosity got the better of me after all,” Dorian says. “Unfortunately it was all speculative rumour, no actual leads. Quite disappointing. Still, I appreciate that you thought of me. Do let me know if you hear something of actual substance, yes?” 

Dorian then gets out of his chair and saunters away, leaving Gallius completely puzzled. 

_Right, is there anyone else who needs me to listen to their nonsense today?_ Dorian thinks, striding purposefully for the exit. _Could these sessions get any more unbearable? Maker, I need to get out of here. And then hopefully find some alcohol and be entirely horizontal._

When he at last gets home he finds Lavellan in their bedroom, in the process of taking off his prosthetic. The elf grins as Dorian walks in. “Hello!”

“Right, you come here,” Dorian says. 

Lavellan finishes detaching his limb, then obediently approaches. “What’s wrong?”

Dorian claps his hands on Lavellan’s shoulders and informs him, “This is a very serious matter. I have had a very stressful day. I can actually feel myself wrinkling by the second.”

Lavellan suppresses a snort. “Well, we can’t have that.”

“No, indeed. So here’s what I am proposing: starting from this moment, you and I are going to relax.”

“Oh, I see,” Lavellan says. “Do we… know how to do that?”

“Ha. Now, you may know me as an industrious man of action, but I’ll have you know I am a former relaxation expert.”

“Oh. Okay. Teach me your ways, Dorian.”

“First of all,” Dorian says, “we are going to need brandy…”

* * *

After a particularly long, warm bath, they find themselves sitting up in bed—brandy helpfully on the nightstand. Lavellan is in Dorian’s lap, leaning back against Dorian’s chest. Their current book is balanced up against Lavellan’s bended knees, freeing his hand to turn the pages. 

Dorian, meantime, has his right arm wound about Lavellan’s waist, his left hand standing in for Lavellan’s at holding down the pages they have already turned past, keeping the book steady. As he listens to Lavellan’s voice Dorian is resting his chin on Lavellan’s shoulder, and he occasionally drops idle sideways kisses on the elf’s cheek.

“If there is to be any progress in this area of inquiry,” Lavellan reads out, “it cannot be done in rejection of conflict and scandal. We must rather proceed through a critical engagement with the impact that public perception has had on scholarly efforts within this field.”

(Pairing his dense theoretical texts with snuggling is the only way Dorian can seem to keep Lavellan interested in them. Although, in fairness, this doesn’t hurt his own enjoyment either.)

Lavellan continues, “The many nuances of public opinion on this matter can be traced back to the time of Thalsian…” He pauses. “Thalsian. Which one is he again?”

“Come now, you know this.”

“Mmm,” Lavellan says, scrunching up his nose. “He's not... is he the one who they claim destroyed Arlathan?”

“No, no, no—that's Tha _la_ sian. _Thal_ sian was before that—he was the first priest of Dumat, remember? Established the rule of mages, supposed originator of blood magic, said to be responsible for convincing my people to worship the Old Gods…”

“Right, right… why couldn’t they think of more distinct names? How am I supposed to remember which is which?”

“I beg your pardon? There’s an entire letter of difference. And how could you forget Thalsian, of all people? He’s a critical figure.”

Lavellan scoffs. “I’m sorry, am I butchering your people’s history? Must be hard for you.”

Dorian barks out a loud laugh—he would double forward if Lavellan weren’t in the way. “Oh-h-h, that was good, you inappropriate wretch…”

“I know my audience,” Lavellan says, reaching back to pat Dorian’s cheek. “Could I have my drink, please?”

Dorian unwraps his arm from Lavellan’s waist and strains to reach one of the two glasses of brandy on the nightstand, at last snatching one and passing it into Lavellan’s hand. “Here, love. I’m not sure if that’s mine or yours now.”

“You mean you want me to drink your germs? Disgusting.”

“If you’re hoping to avoid my germs, I can think of at least one other thing you shouldn’t have put in your mouth today.”

Lavellan nearly chokes on his brandy. “Touché!”

Dorian obligingly takes the glass back to return it to the nightstand, then wraps Lavellan up again. “See, this is nice. Isn’t this nice?”

“You and a warm bed and some alcohol? I can’t think of anything nicer.”

“Exactly,” Dorian says. “Wouldn’t you like to keep doing this? Could you not just… hold off on Thorn for another few nights?” Lavellan sighs, and Dorian squeezes him closer, nuzzling his cheek. “Now, don’t make that sound. Just give me a few more nights of relaxation before you go back to reckless activities. What do you say?”

“Sorry, love. I’ll have to get back to it tomorrow night. There’s something I really need to do.”

“Right. I suppose I shouldn’t ask, should I?”

Lavellan pauses. “Well... actually, I… have been thinking perhaps you should, this time.”

“Sorry? What do you mean?”

Lavellan shuts the book, sets it aside, then turns about so he can look Dorian right in the eye. “Look… Endriel found one of his clan-mates.”

Dorian gapes. “What? No! Alive? Honestly? How could you not tell me that?”

“Because it’s… complicated.”

Dorian takes a moment to study the nuances of Lavellan’s regretful expression. “Ah. This involves someone I know?”

“That is… possible,” Lavellan says. “I’ve promised Endriel I’ll get her out of there as soon as I can. But there are a few things that worry me here… Endriel told me he won’t leave with her. He wants to stay here, he says.”

“That’s… touching,” Dorian says. “If baffling.”

“Mm. But you know their clan was dissolved, she’ll have nothing to go home to. What if she wants to stay here with him?”

“What about it?”

“Well… I typically try not to let people find out that Thorn lives with you.”

“If Endriel trusts her,” Dorian says, “then I’m not particularly concerned. What would she gain in betraying us?”

“Are you sure, love? You’d be okay with bringing someone else into all this, just like that?”

Dorian shrugs. “Inviting mistreated servants in off the streets is how I wound up with Endriel, isn’t it? And look how useful he is. Besides… I’d hate to disappoint him. Maybe this would actually cheer him up for a change.”

“Okay,” Lavellan says. “Thank you. That makes things easier.”

Dorian is studying Lavellan again, wondering just which of his powerful colleagues the elf is planning to cross this time. “You will be careful, yes? This won’t be a repeat of what happened with Severin? I don’t want you dragging yourself in here half-dead again.”

“I promise. I will be very careful.”

Dorian sighs heavily. “Well… While we’re on the subject, actually… May I ask you something else? I know I shouldn’t, but it’s bothering me.”

“Hm?”

“What did you take from Severin?” 

Lavellan clearly hadn’t been expecting that. He blinks at Dorian for a few moments. “Trying to incriminate yourself further, are you?” 

“I’m already incriminated beyond repair, I think,” Dorian says. “Whatever it was, he’s quite upset about it. Claims it was very valuable. Are you into thievery now as well? Of things other than stray bottles of alcohol, that is…” 

“You know very well what my business is, Dorian. What do you think I left his place with?” 

“I would assume a handful of escapees, as always.” 

“Yes. Just that.” 

“Just that? For a callous old Magister, I simply wouldn’t expect him to be so broken up over a few missing servants. Or did one of them smuggle out something valuable on the way? Is that possible?”

“It’s… yes, it’s possible, of course,” Lavellan says. “I mean, she didn’t seem to have many possessions, but I didn’t exactly pat her down before we left.”

“She? Just one?”

“Two, technically, but—oh. Well, that’s true, come to think of it. One of them was a baby…” 

“Ah, yes. The baby in the chute?” 

“That’s the one. But her mother did tell me that Severin had a strange interest in the baby. She said he was keeping the baby away from her. That’s part of why she wanted so badly to escape…” 

“Oh, Maker,” Dorian says. “Don’t tell me it was _his_ baby?” 

Lavellan looks horrified for a moment. Then he says, “Oh—no, no, she was an elven baby, she couldn’t possibly be. Half-blooded elves don’t look like that…” 

“Well, that’s a relief at least. Still… then what in the world does a Magister want with an elven baby?”

“You’d know that better than I would, I expect,” Lavellan says. “But it doesn’t sound promising, does it? Elf baby sacrifice? Is that a thing around these parts?”

“Well, it must be a thing somewhere, but Severin? I would be surprised. He’s a member of a rather moderate faction of my colleagues. The type that laments corruption while fearfully avoiding any and all attempts to do something productive about it. Still, who knows—stranger things have happened…”

“Hmm,” Lavellan sighs, distractedly tousling his own hair. “What a mess… I’m sorry I involved you.”

“You haven’t… exactly,” Dorian says. (He decides it best not to mention Severin’s accusation—that was mostly his own fault, to be fair.) “Not to worry, Amatus. I knew I was signing on for disaster when I let you into my life. It’s all part of the bargain.”

Lavellan frowns deeply at him. “Great bargain, huh?”

“You’re frequently vexing,” Dorian says with a wink, “but you do have your talents.”

“Well. Thanks. You’re so good at flattery.”

“You are rather lucky to be blessed with me, aren’t you? Now, speaking of—get back here and let’s finish this chapter already. We’re meant to be relaxing, aren’t we? And here we’ve nearly reached the good part.”

“Do I even want to know what you consider a ‘good’ part of a 500-page tome about magical theory?”

Dorian laughs, then pinches Lavellan’s cheek. “You’ll soon find out! That’s the price of your bargain here, darling…”

“I know,” Lavellan says, taking up the book and snuggling back in with Dorian. “Don’t worry. Oddly enough, I actually enjoy reading these things with you. It’s like… Tevinter practice.”

“Working on your cultural assimilation, are you?”

“Exactly,” Lavellan says, cracking the book back open. “Look at me, Dorian. I’m getting mage-ier by the second.”

“I am unspeakably proud,” Dorian says. “You’ll be sacrificing infants in no time.”

* * *

In the morning Lavellan pads down to the dining room to find the usual spread care of Laelia—crusty bread, dates and honey, abundant fruit, that strange breakfast fish he’ll never get used to—and Aquinea, who is sitting at one end of the dining table, reading something, drink in hand. 

She barely lifts her gaze as he comes in. “Elf.”

“My lady human,” he says with a deferential nod, then takes his seat.

“I would make a derisive remark about your sluggish start to the day,” Aquinea says, “but it seems you’re doing better than at least one member of this household.”

“He’s coming,” Lavellan says. “Eventually. I mean, it’s not a fair contest—I have the benefit of never needing to shave…”

Aquinea lifts her head, then narrows her eyes at him, scrutinizing his jawline. “I had not considered that,” she says. “Does that truly apply to all of your kind?”

“All the ones I’ve ever met, anyway.”

“I see. Fascinating.”

Lavellan opens his mouth again, then hesitates. Is he even… _qualified_ to casually chat with Aquinea, really? Well, why not: “You should’ve seen Dorian meeting my clan. They were fascinated by his ability to grow facial hair.”

“Your ‘clan’?” Aquinea asks, as if this concept is too disgustingly rustic to bear. “Then you’ve introduced your people to Dorian?”

“Of course.”

“And yet my son forces me to wring the information out of him. Typical… Pray tell, then, what does an elven clan make of your relationship with a Tevinter Magister?”

“They’re… a bit… puzzled, I think,” Lavellan says. “But they don’t… not approve. They actually gave us their blessing, in a fashion.”

“And what does that involve?”

“Well, they invited him to the camp. That’s already unprecedented. They let him take part in a sacred ritual, which I never would’ve expected. And now some of them even call him ‘Vhenallin’—that means ‘friend of our people,’ basically…”

“This was… some camp in the woods? With… tents and wild animals and the like?”

“Fewer tents than aravels,” Lavellan says. “Or, uh, ‘impractical sail-carts,’ as Dorian calls them. And Halla, yes. Those white deer-like animals we keep—there was a herd of them. One of them took quite a shine to Dorian. Or, uh, chewing on his clothing, at least.”

Her face still looks decidedly pinched. “I am having incredible difficulty picturing my son in this situation.”

“He fit in surprisingly well, actually,” Lavellan says. “Here I was sure he’d draw the line at drinking ram’s blood.”

Aquinea has nothing to say to this. She just narrows her eyes at him, evidently trying to diagnose whether or not he is being serious. 

Lavellan unconcernedly butters his bread.

And then, as Dorian strolls in to join them, Aquinea says, “Your elf thinks he’s funny, Dorian.”

“Sometimes he’s even right,” Dorian says. As he passes by he pauses to bend down and plant a kiss on Lavellan’s cheek, then continues to his seat.

“ _Sometimes?_ ” Lavellan asks.

“Come now, that’s charitable,” Dorian says with a grin—then swiftly ducks a tossed apple.

Aquinea gazes after the apple, quite clearly making a mental note about elven table manners.

“So testy,” Dorian says, casually slinging some of the breakfast fish onto his plate. “And here I was about to suggest we spend a nice day together.”

“No Magister-ing today?”

“None. I am completely free. What do you say to a romantic stroll through the city gardens? Perhaps we can even get ourselves a few tiny cakes.”

Lavellan’s eyebrows are all the way up. “Nature _and_ cake? What did I do to deserve this?”

“More importantly,” Aquinea says, “you are so afraid of his presence being discovered that your own mother is not allowed in your home, and yet you’re comfortable brazenly strolling about the public gardens together?”

“Ah, well, you see, most random strangers we encounter in public don’t ask _quite_ so many probing questions as my mother tends to.”

“To anyone passing I just look like his servant,” Lavellan adds. “It’s… fine, usually.”

“‘Usually,’” Aquinea says. “Your confidence leaves something to be desired, elf.”

Lavellan grins sheepishly and says, “You’re not the first person to tell me so.”

“This is unbearable. Must I really have _two_ people fretting about my well-being under my roof?” Dorian asks. “It’s a simple walk through the gardens. Possibly with some cakes. This will be perfectly fine.”

Aquinea says, “Your well-being was not exactly my concern. I was more considering the likelihood of you stirring up some ridiculous public scandal.”

“You know exactly what the likelihood of that is, Mother,” Dorian says. “Inevitable. What was the question again?”

Aquinea releases a long sigh through her nose, then goes back to reading her book. “You’ll do what you will, I suppose. Why should you possibly listen to me?”

“Excellent,” Dorian says, winking at Lavellan, who attempts very hard not to smile. “So glad we’re on the same page.”

* * *

The city gardens are lovely this time of year—hibiscus in bloom. After giving Lavellan a chance to eagerly inhale as many rare botanical scents as possible, Dorian leads the way to a café on the edge of the gardens, where he buys a small spiced honey cake for them to share. They take it to a table upstairs, where there are no other patrons—and where the proprietor can’t be scandalized by the odd sight of a Magister romantically sharing a cake with some elven servant.

“Mmm,” Lavellan says, as he savours the first forkful. “Really good choice.”

“I thought you would like this one,” Dorian says. “Calidum hibernis, it’s called. ‘Warm winter.’”

“That’s… predictably odd, but okay,” Lavellan says, and then he lays down his fork and looks his partner in the eye. “All right, Dorian. What is this all about?”

“What does that mean?”

“Only that I get the distinct impression you’re trying to butter me up here.”

“I beg your pardon? Why would I possibly need to butter you up? You already adore me. I’m fairly certain you’re at buttering capacity.”

“That’s what I would’ve thought too. So?”

Dorian scoffs. “Honestly. Am I not allowed to purchase a single cake for my darling partner without being accused of ulterior motives? Perhaps I simply wanted to gaze adoringly at you outside my mother’s supervision.”

“I thought that’s why we had a door on our bedroom… And taking me to the gardens before noon? You’d normally not even be dressed at this hour.”

“What’s so uncommon about that? Can’t a man admire some plants?”

“You. Wanted to admire some plants.”

“You’re a horrible influence, what can I say?”

Lavellan frowns. “Dorian.”

Dorian smiles winningly back. “Amatus.”

“You’re doing that weaselly talking thing again,” Lavellan says. “Could you please just tell me what’s on your mind? I know you’re waiting for the opportune moment, but I rather think that moment is now. The time when I’m specifically asking you to tell me whatever’s bothering you.”

Dorian releases a long, exasperated sigh. “This doesn’t _seem_ particularly opportune.”

“Then it will probably never be, so you should just come out with it now.”

“You are relentless,” Dorian says. “I thought you swore to give up ‘inquisiting’ forever. Why all the inquisitiveness all of a sudden?”

“Please. We both know I’ll never tire of ‘inquisiting’ you.”

“How lucky I am,” Dorian says. He folds his arms and sits back, studying his partner, who is levelling that piercing analytical gaze back at him while slowly stuffing a sizable forkful of honey cake into his mouth.

True, Dorian thinks, the elf has caught him out—he is slowly, carefully setting the stage for that unpleasant conversation about Lavellan’s safety. But he still has no clue how to phrase it. “Be in less danger, darling”? How is Lavellan meant to do that? Particularly with Endriel's clan-mate currently in peril. Dorian can't exactly ask Lavellan to forget the whole Thorn thing and abandon her.

Then what? “I'm worried you’re taking on more than you can currently handle”? The elf has wild fluctuations in his self-confidence already—the last thing Dorian wants to do is make Lavellan think he doesn't believe in him. Of course Dorian believes in him. But.

But.

No, Dorian thinks, this is all still a quagmire just now—clearly this is not the opportune moment. So he redirects himself to more benign territory and says: “Mostly I’m just feeling apologetic that you should have to put up with my mother’s presence in our home. I feel you’re owed some restitution for that.”

“Why? It’s not so bad. I kind of like her, honestly.”

“You _like_ her. You like being constantly subjected to snide criticisms?”

“Well, I like spending time with you, don’t I?”

“Oh!” Dorian says, sitting back and clapping a hand to his chest. “Touché. Also: hurtful.”

Lavellan grins. “I meant that in the absolute nicest way possible, I promise. And she’s really not so bad.”

“Are you certain? She did tell me you snapped at her.”

“Er,” Lavellan says, his face fast turning regretful. “I might’ve… Are you upset?”

“What? Maker, no. I wish I’d seen it, honestly…”

 _No, you really don’t,_ Lavellan thinks.

“…but that doesn’t exactly strike me as something that happens when one is getting along swimmingly with one’s mother-in-law.”

“It was fine, really. We were just… y’know. Sussing each other out.”

“Well, now I definitely wish I could’ve seen it. But I—” 

Dorian interrupts himself there by sitting abruptly upright. Lavellan frowns. “Hm?”

Then Dorian gets to his feet, hurrying to the window. “Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me…”

“What? What’s wrong?” Lavellan asks, standing as well.

“Right, well… I don’t mean to alarm you here, but we do appear to be somewhat, uh, surrounded.”

Lavellan joins Dorian at the window, peeking past his shoulder, and it’s unmistakable: a great number of assassin’s guild members are surrounding the exit from this café. (This is a decidedly Tevinter touch—members of the guild quite audaciously wear a uniform, so you can be entirely certain on their arrival that someone has sent assassins after you out of spite. Ever a spectacle, Lavellan thinks.)

“Assassin’s guild,” Dorian says, peering down at them. “How horribly mundane. Still, it’ll be nice to actually defend myself with magic, for once. I was starting to miss that.”

“There are… an awful lot of them,” Lavellan says. “Why do you think…?”

“Maker knows… Must have something to do with all these votes we’ve had recently. I expect I’ll soon be receiving an angry explanatory letter from whatever old-money noble prat has decided to wave their genitalia around in this fashion.”

“What a country,” Lavellan says. “Remind me again why you’re trying to save these people from themselves?”

“Sheer contrariness, mostly,” Dorian says. He sighs heavily, stroking his mustache as he studies the potential battlefield in front of them. “This won’t do. It’ll take a significant effort to bring so many down… And there are far too many innocent people about in the gardens to just start firing off magic. There are workers everywhere. Someone’s bound to get caught in the crossfire.”

“Then how about a strategic retreat?”

“Tell me that means you have a brilliant plan.”

“I don’t know about ‘brilliant.’ But we’re not the first people I’ve had to smuggle quietly through Minrathous.”

“True! Though I reckon escaped slaves aren’t quite as under attack as the two of us tend to be.”

“Depends who they’ve escaped from.” Lavellan heads to the other side of the room and peers out the café’s back window, scanning the alleyway below. “They only have four people over on this side. Must not’ve counted on us coming through a second-storey window… We should be able to get past them easily enough, don’t you think?”

“And then what? Casually stroll down the street?”

“No. The sewers. There’s an entrance just on the corner.”

Dorian sighs. “Of course… Why is it never a nice restaurant or a beautiful vineyard? Why do you always take me to dank holes in the ground?”

Lavellan grins in spite of himself. “Because it’s the theme of our relationship?”

“Charming.” Dorian joins Lavellan at the back window, pinching his arm. “Right, then. Tell me what we’re doing here.”

“All right. Four people down there. Sewer over that way. How about you just encase them in ice and we slip right past?”

“Please tell me you’re not doing wordplay right now. This is unbearable enough as it is.”

“Unintentional. I swear.”

“I don’t believe you,” Dorian says. “More to the point, those are mages, not simple woodland creatures—an ice spell won’t hold them for long.”

“Long enough for me and my dagger to get down there.”

“Oh, are you going to do that ‘whirling stabs’ thing? I do enjoy watching you do that.”

“If it’ll cheer you up, my dear,” Lavellan says, “then absolutely.”

“You’re too kind,” Dorian says, and he readies his staff, a swirling of energy already coming to life. “Let’s get this over with…”

The assassins below have only a split second to register the sound of the window being pushed open before a frigid crackle descends upon them, locking them in place.

* * *

Dorian has heard enough about Lavellan’s underground kingdom that he had something of a picture of it in his mind. But he hadn’t quite been prepared for the size of it—the height, the sheer cavernousness of the many passageways. Nor had he been prepared for the smell.

Maker, the _smell._

“You do know where you’re going, yes?” Dorian asks, flinching away from a dripping stream of disconcertingly black water from above.

“Of course. Mind the sewage puddle.”

Dorian just barely avoids stepping in it, then sighs dramatically. “You really do have a knack for leading me to disgusting places, Amatus.”

“Come on, you should be nostalgic. Didn’t we basically meet in a place like this?”

“A horrible sewer? Why, yes, we did! I believe the locals call it ‘Redcliffe.’”

Lavellan snorts. “You’re such a snob.”

“You started it.”

“Fair… You’ll get used to the smell, I promise. It stops being so overpowering after a few minutes.”

“This is not exactly the type of romantic sentiment I hoped to be hearing from you this morning,” Dorian says. “Still, I suppose at this rate I’ll be happy if we get ourselves home in fewer than three pieces.”

“Let’s aim for one piece. Losing limbs is my thing, not yours.”

“True. I’d hate to step on your coattails.” Dorian pauses. “Or... your empty sleeve, as it were...”

“Shut it.” Lavellan reaches back and takes Dorian’s hand. “It’s just this way, come on.”

When he had first trained to be an assassin, Lavellan had been swept up in the dramatics of it: the stealth and the precision of cleanly removing a target from the equation before they even knew you were there. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time that his greatest use for the knowledge might one day be defensively thwarting other assassins in the act. 

It’s force of habit by now—recognize an ideal ambush point, check all the spots where you might hide yourself. Lavellan can’t count how many times this instinct has paid off in keeping Dorian safe.

The tunnel they are traversing suddenly opens up into an expansive chamber. Ahead of them, the walkway widens with a wall on one side, a putrid lake of wastewater on the other. There are some ambiguously coloured cisterns lining the walkway that make a series of inconvenient shadowy alcoves. And above the walkway is a darkened ledge—all ideal places for assassins to tuck themselves. 

As Lavellan scans these details he suddenly catches an irregular shadow in a corner. He stops in place, shoulders shooting up, his ears visibly flicking as he listens intently for suspicious motion.

Dorian is familiar with this reaction. He would probably find that ear twitch adorable if it didn’t so often precede complete and utter disaster. “Where?”

“Not sure. Too much echo in here,” Lavellan says. He backs Dorian and himself into a safe corner to make flanking them more difficult, still looking about the room, as Dorian wraps them both in the warm plunge of a fresh barrier. “I think there’s more than one.”

“No sense waiting around for them to show themselves, is there?” Dorian asks.

There is that familiar static crackle of Dorian gathering energy into his staff, and then he sends out a pulse of flames that sweeps about the room, momentarily illuminating every corner—as he pulls out a dagger Lavellan’s eyes dart from corner to corner, trying to count how many assassins are hidden in the shadows—four? Five? Maybe six. Shit. He needs to keep his eye on all of them, otherwise...

And then one of them bares two daggers and leaps right for them, clearly trying to draw their attention away from the rest. Lavellan manages to knock this one back by sweeping his prosthetic in front of him, catching the attacker’s jaw with his metal hand and sending them to the ground, finishing them quickly with his dagger—aided in no small part by a shot of electricity from Dorian. The next two assassins attempt to come at Lavellan from either side and Dorian expends a good deal of his mana on handily encasing them both in ice, which makes it all the easier for Lavellan to horrifically shatter them with the weight of his prosthetic arm.

“Rather handy appendage you have there,” Dorian says.

“Sometimes,” Lavellan says, still glancing frantically about the room. Three down, how many left? He catches a motion flitting past through the shadows to his right and leaps for the advancing man, slamming him against the wall, pressing on the man’s windpipe with his prosthetic, knocking the weapon safely from his hands and kicking it far out of his reach—the blade slides through the railing at the edge of the walkway and splashes into the wastewater below. 

Then he hears Dorian say, “Behind you, love!”

Lavellan glances back—there is another assassin just behind him, her blade inches from his shoulder—she is temporarily frozen in place by a current of electricity from Dorian’s staff. “Whoops,” Lavellan says. He knocks the disarmed man in front of him to the ground, then spins around and takes care of this woman before she can regain control of her movements. That’s five, which means…

And then the disarmed man behind him springs up again and wraps his arms around Lavellan’s neck, dragging him backward, the surprise of this causing Lavellan to drop his own dagger. Lavellan struggles against this hold, trying to work his fingers under the arm squeezing his throat closed—he hears Dorian curse and glances toward him. Just in time to see the sixth assassin materialize.

Dorian is focusing intently on casting something, his eyes on Lavellan’s predicament. He doesn’t notice the man who’s sprung from the shadows just to the right of him.

“Dor—” Lavellan coughs, but the man holding him tightens his grip around his neck, so he’s unable to get any more out. He just watches in horror as the sixth assassin leaps forth and shatters Dorian’s barrier. 

This alerts Dorian’s attention—he attempts to move away, but the assassin is quicker. His blade slashes clean across Dorian’s side, tearing through fabric, drawing visible blood, provoking a cry of pain.

Everything in Lavellan’s brain shuts off save for furious instinct. He sinks his teeth into the arm of the man holding him, then clasps his living right hand over his metal fist and drives the full weight of his prosthetic back between the man’s ribs, with a terrible crunching impact. The man yelps and releases him at last.

Dorian, meantime, has hit back with a blast of spirit energy that sends the sixth assassin reeling away from him, buying him space. But even as he does this Dorian is clutching at his injured side with his free hand, and he sinks back against the clammy sewer wall, letting himself slowly slide down it.

“ _No_ ,” Lavellan manages, near blind with panic and rage. He snatches up his fallen dagger and mercilessly cuts down the injured man beside him. Then he flings himself across the room, catching the sixth assassin from behind, clamping his metal arm about the man’s waist and ripping his dagger across his throat. Then Lavellan releases the man and directs a kick at the small of his back, sending him over the low guardrail on the far side of the walkway and straight into the wastewater below them.

“Eugh,” Dorian says weakly, from a sitting position against the sewer wall. “Pungent.”

Lavellan spins around and rushes to Dorian’s side. “No, no, no…”

“It’s all right,” Dorian says with a grimace, although red is increasingly seeping into the fabric at his side, venturing out farther than his hand can hide it. “Just a scratch…”

Lavellan takes a knee, helping Dorian pull his robes away to get a look at the wound, muttering, “Tel’din’an, 'ma lath.”

 _All right, he’s panicking_ , Dorian thinks. The only time Lavellan forgets that Dorian doesn’t understand elven is when he’s too emotional or tired or frantic to think straight. So Dorian attempts to lighten the mood by saying, “Well, I’m sure that was moving, but I don’t know what it means.”

Lavellan glances up at Dorian’s face, then back down without answering. His brain is still whirring with anxiety, trying to process the sight in front of him. The gash looks nasty but based on its location it shouldn’t have nicked any vital parts… Lavellan pulls out a healing draught and pushes it into Dorian’s hand. Then he spreads a clean cloth across his own thigh, takes some elfroot from his pocket and mashes it onto the cloth as best he can, finally pressing it all to Dorian’s wound.

Dorian drinks down the potion—it steadies him and boosts his energy, while the elfroot paste Lavellan is applying soothes the throbbing of his cut. “Oh, that’s nice,” Dorian says wearily. “Did they hurt you, darling? You’re awfully pale.”

Lavellan isn’t sure how to answer that question. No significant wounds landed on his person—but someone getting to Dorian? It’s practically the same thing. It may as well be. “I am so sorry,” he says.

“You’re not telling me it’s fatal, doctor?” Dorian asks with a grin. “Here I was about to say that it’s feeling better.”

Lavellan is evidently not in a joking mood, as nothing Dorian is saying seems to have any effect on his miserable expression. “I should’ve seen him. He shouldn’t have been able to get past me… I cannot believe I let that happen.”

“Sweetheart, it is not that bad.”

“It _is_ , though,” Lavellan says. “I lost track of the field. I let you get hurt! If I’m not even capable of protecting you, then what good am I?”

“You seem to be overlooking the rather relevant detail that I am still alive.”

“This was far too close,” Lavellan says, studying his living hand, which is still pressed to the cloth on Dorian’s wound. “I want to think nothing has changed. But I’m not as skilled as I once was, am I? Can I really trust myself to protect you in this state? Maybe I shouldn’t.”

Dorian takes Lavellan’s chin in his hand. “Look at me. Stop that right now. We were outnumbered three to one and yet you’ve killed all of them and we’re both going to be fine. Not a bad outcome, mathematically speaking.” 

“It’s not good enough.”

“It’ll do,” Dorian says. “More importantly, here I am, already wounded, and yet you insist on wounding me further by making that horrible sad face. What nonsense is that?”

Lavellan cringes with regret. “I’m—”

“Adding insult to injury,” Dorian says, “I have made several amusing remarks over the last few minutes, including that thing I just said, but you haven’t laughed at any of them. That’s very harmful to my self-esteem.”

“I’m just… Sorry. I’m sorry. Just—you scared me, love. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

“You would find a way to survive,” Dorian says. “Although undoubtedly you’d suffer from the sudden lack of witty rejoinders and stunning good looks in your life.”

“Much more than just that.”

“And the incredible sex, yes, but I thought that went without saying.” 

Lavellan shoots him a bemused look—well, at least that’s done something to change his expression. When all else fails to calm Lavellan down, Dorian thinks, outright teasing always seems to do the trick.

Dorian continues, “Luckily for you, I am rather invested in staying alive myself. And speaking of—how about we get moving before someone else finds us here?”

“Okay. Yes. Good point.”

Dorian helps Lavellan wrap more fabric around his midsection, binding the elfroot-soaked cloth to the wound. Then he leans on Lavellan as they stand together, wincing as subtly as he can manage.

“All right?” Lavellan asks. “Can you walk?”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian says. “Sore but fine. Let’s just get out of this unpleasant place…”

They continue on through the passageways a bit more slowly; Dorian is taking ginger steps to avoid bothering his wound too much. Lavellan is quiet for a few minutes, then says, “Dorian… before I met you…”

Dorian laughs aloud. “Oh Amatus, please! Are we still acting like I’m on my deathbed? I might start to believe it if you keep this up.”

“Can you shut up for a second?” Lavellan says. “I’m trying to express my feelings. Don’t you want to hear my feelings?”

“Not if you’re going to start weeping over them. We are in your horrible kingdom here—what would the rats think?”

“I’m not weeping,” Lavellan says irritably. 

Dorian is sure he sighted a welling-up of tears earlier, but he restrains himself from saying so. “Very well. I apologize. What are these feelings you would like to express?”

“Never mind.”

“Oh, go on, I’m curious now. Tell me.”

“Nope. Forget it. You don’t deserve to hear them.”

Dorian studies Lavellan out of the corner of his eye for a moment, then winces, putting a hand on his side. “Ooh—ouch…”

Lavellan whips around, wide-eyed. “What? What’s wrong?”

“This wound just… oh, I think it really needs to hear some heartfelt feelings. Otherwise…”

Lavellan’s face descends into a scowl in record time. “Are you serious.”

“Please hurry,” Dorian gasps. “This could be fatal! The only thing that can possibly cure me is hearing you say why you adore me so much.”

“You are making that difficult to recall.”

“Oh, how very cold! Is that truly the last thing you want me to hear before I expire?”

Lavellan sighs, then claps his hand on Dorian’s shoulder, getting on his toes, giving Dorian a kiss. The kind of kiss that says, _I am doing this because I dearly love you and also because I really need you to stop talking._

“Not as verbal as I was hoping,” Dorian says, “but I suppose it’ll do.”

Lavellan studies Dorian for a moment. “I was just going to tell you how much you mean to me. Sentimental garbage like that. You would’ve hated it, I’m sure.” 

“I’m certain I would’ve been moved,” Dorian says. “And made fun of you in equal measure.”

“Yes, you are definitely horrible,” Lavellan says. “And yet for some reason you continue to mean the world to me. So please don’t leave me just yet, all right?”

“As I’ve just said, death is not exactly on my agenda… Although, if we spend any longer breathing in the aromas of this horrible sewer I may begin to consider it a mercy.”

“Come on then,” Lavellan says, taking his hand. “Let’s get you home.”

* * *

On arriving safely back to their home, Lavellan had braced himself for an epic dressing-down by Aquinea. _How could you let this happen to my son?_

Instead, she studies the gash, then says, “That’s it? From the way you flapped in here I was rather expecting something serious.”

“Not enough of a challenge for you, is it?” Dorian asks irritably, from where he is lying on the couch with his side bared. “Going to leave me to heal up the natural way, are you?”

“Well, let’s not be completely vulgar,” Aquinea says, and she stirs up some healing energy from the Fade, almost lazily flicking it around Dorian’s wound.

Lavellan sits there, watching in fascination as her magic progresses the healing so that Dorian’s skin knits itself back together, leaving a faint red line. “There you are.”

Dorian studies it disapprovingly. “And you’re just leaving that scar there?”

“Consider this a lesson,” Aquinea says, turning unconcernedly back to the book she was reading. “Not to worry—I’m certain it shall disappear on its own eventually.”

“A lesson for what?!”

“General cheek,” Aquinea says, unconcernedly flipping a page.

Dorian sighs harshly, getting to his feet, readjusting his robe. “Wonderful. Incredible.”

For his part, Lavellan still feels slightly overwhelmed that what he’s just seen should even be possible. He says, “That was amazing, my lady, thank you.”

She looks up with an unimpressed brow raised. “ _Amazing?_ That’s a bit much. Though I suppose it would seem so to a person like you. Nevertheless, I appreciate that you actually deign to thank me for my assistance, unlike my ill-mannered son.”

“Honestly,” Dorian says. “What sort of horrible person raised him?”

“Needless to say, I blame your father for everything.”

“Typical,” Dorian says. “If you’ll excuse me, then—I have about eight layers of sewer filth to scrub from my body, sooner rather than later…”

He strides off, leaving Aquinea and Lavellan alone together. She returns to the book she was reading, casually flipping another page, not even seeming to register Lavellan’s continued existence in the room—but he can feel the tension there. There’s clearly something. So he waits patiently for it.

At last, with no hint of emotion, she asks him: “What was it you said again? ‘Protect him at all costs’—those the words you used, were they not?” 

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan says. It’s all he can think to say.

“Well, you did keep him alive and complaining. That much is appreciated.” She then briefly, disinterestedly meets his gaze. “But I expect next time you shall do better. Yes?”

Lavellan flushes deeply. As if seeing Dorian’s fate dangled in front of him wasn’t enough terror and humiliation for one day. “Yes, my lady,” he says.

* * *

Lavellan avoids Dorian for the next few hours, washing himself up in the guest bath, pondering this situation all the while.

There is something particularly infuriating about failing to protect Dorian from the kind of attack he himself specializes in. An assassin wielding knives in the dark. And it scares him how vulnerable Dorian is to that sort of assault. For a man who could thwart the most bewildering magic with a stunningly complex spell of his own, a quick knife in the back is surprisingly effective against him.

 _He was distracted trying to protect you, to be fair,_ Lavellan thinks. _If he hadn’t needed to do that…_

Lavellan tries to shake himself of these unhelpful thoughts. _This must be how Dorian sees it,_ he thinks instead. _When you go down so easily to a simple curse that he can dispel without a second thought. It must be just as frightening and frustrating to him._

_But at least he gave you the nullification to use. What have you done for him?_

Lavellan turns this over in his head for a while. Then he heads back for the bedroom, where he finds Dorian reclined in their bed, casually reading a book, as though nothing at all has happened today.

“There you are,” Dorian says with a smile. “Here I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“I… might’ve been,” Lavellan says.

Dorian sighs with exasperation, then gets up and comes to Lavellan, putting his hands on the elf’s shoulders. “Amatus, I beg you, stop punishing yourself for this. It helps neither of us.”

“I know,” Lavellan says. “It’s okay, Dorian, you don’t have to reassure me. There’s actually something else I wanted to talk about—or, well. There’s something I wanted to give you.” 

“Oh?” Dorian asks, watching uncertainly as Lavellan pulls something out and offers it forth.

He’s holding one of his spare daggers, one he rarely brings along anymore. Dorian stares at it. “A knife?”

Dorian knows it’s a dagger. He always says ‘knife,’ if only to get on Lavellan’s nerves. 

“Yes, a ‘knife,’” Lavellan says. “It’s sharp and light, this one. Easy to handle.”

“You want me to have your knife,” Dorian says. “What exactly am I going to do with it?”

“Protect yourself? I think it would be safest if you had some non-magical means of defence on hand, just in case.”

“But I know how to reverse the nullification effect.”

“For now. What if they come up with something more complicated? This is just insurance, right?”

“But what do you expect me to do, even if I have it? I don’t kill people with _objects._ That’s not in my skill set. I’d probably end up sticking it in someone’s nostril or something useless like that.”

Lavellan laughs, then sets the dagger aside. “I can show you, then. Come here.”

“Show me what?” Dorian asks, though he approaches Lavellan, who gives him a light, suggestive push toward the bed, until Dorian obediently sits down.

“Shirt off, please,” Lavellan says as he throws a leg over Dorian, settling in his lap.

On his back in bed, propped up on his elbows, Dorian watches with a strange fascination as Lavellan trails his fingertips along Dorian’s bare skin, explaining in a gentle voice exactly how and where Dorian might kill someone. 

“To incapacitate someone quickly,” Lavellan says, “you can’t go wrong with slitting a throat. But you need to be quick. Quicker than them. If they see you coming straight on, then it’s probably not in the cards.”

Lavellan strokes Dorian’s chest along the path of his bones, raising goosebumps in the wake of his fingers. “You might think you should aim for the heart, but the ribcage makes it tricky. And with all the muscles in here you’re more likely not to find the heart at all. Better for you to hit the stomach…”

And then Lavellan traces the lines of Dorian’s abdomen, marking the best points of entry with little finger-crosses, explaining which organs Dorian should try to puncture—all spoken with the ridiculously incongruous tenderness that usually characterizes their conversations in bed.

Dorian has never been particularly squeamish about death. Death is in their trades, both of them. They both know death in and out—they know how close it is, how a plump and bursting life can be instantly collapsed, paper-thin. They both know how to collapse it. They have both done so many times. 

There are stereotypes about people who work so close to death—people like Dorian, for instance, necromancers, who are said to be ghoulish and practically lifeless themselves. Dorian has never accepted that. Living on the knife-edge of death makes him feel _more alive_ , makes him want to enjoy everything more, even to excess. Nothing like a pressing sense of mortality to make one desperate to suck all the sweet juice out of life while they still have the chance.

And Dorian can’t help but fixate on death as Lavellan sits on his hips, pinning him down, fingertips running along the warm skin of Dorian’s stomach. An assassin tracing Dorian’s weak points, considering Dorian’s vulnerable mortality right under his fingers. The very idea sends an odd thrill down Dorian’s spine.

Particularly as Lavellan strokes the faded line that’s the last remnant of Dorian’s wound from the sewers. “This, on the other hand… is not a very good place to aim for.”

“Evidently not,” Dorian says. “Lucky you weren’t the man who was after me.”

Lavellan grins back, baring teeth, clear intent weighing down his expression. “I’m always after you.”

Dorian laughs. “Getting distracted, are we?”

“Hard not to.” Lavellan lets his fingers tickle up Dorian’s stomach, then slides them back down, hooking one under his waistband. Then Lavellan leans all the way forward, bringing his mouth to the sensitive skin of Dorian’s throat, and Dorian feels the words there, spelled out in lips and teeth and breath: “You are so fucking beautiful.”

Normally Dorian would make Lavellan wrestle him for control of the situation, if he even gave it up at all—but with the way Lavellan’s attention is winding him up right now, he feels this desperate need to leave Lavellan in charge. 

This is not an easy thing to admit, naturally. Dorian struggles with the wording for a few moments, then settles for, “I’m at your mercy, love.”

A surprised chuckle on Dorian’s neck. “Are you?” Lavellan asks, punctuating every pause in his speech with a kiss. “Well, then. I’d better… take advantage.”

“Yes, please,” Dorian manages.

Lavellan brings his mouth close to Dorian’s ear while he works him up to it, whispering grinning questions: Is this what you want? Will you tell me how much? Will you promise to be loud? 

“Yes, yes,” Dorian tells him, each assurance making him more impatient, so that when Lavellan finally gets on with it Dorian reacts with gasping relief.

At one point in time Lavellan might have clasped Dorian’s hands in each of his, or braced one palm on each of Dorian’s thighs. Now his grasp is reduced, but he makes do. His left arm is still strong, if not able to grip anything—and he knows where to put his weight, pinning Dorian with his body, threatening control with his teeth. In these moments Dorian forgets that anything could possibly be considered ‘missing’ from Lavellan. Really, in these moments Dorian would be hard-pressed to name a more capable man in Thedas.

When they’re both spent they lie tangled up, facing each other, eyes brimming with the dark of the room. Lavellan still can’t seem to stop touching Dorian—fingers tracing his cheek, stroking across his lips, touching his chin.

“Creators, I love you,” Lavellan says. 

Dorian smiles back at him. As usual, words in kind don’t feel particularly adequate, so he doesn’t try them. Instead he pulls Lavellan in tightly and says the first idle thought that comes to mind, which is, “Do you know that Orlesians refer to the sensation of orgasm as ‘the small death’?”

Lavellan snorts. “ _Oh_. Sure. So now orgasm is ‘death’ but berries in lard sauce is ‘food’? There’s something deeply wrong with that country.”

Dorian laughs aloud. “There’s no disputing that! But I was actually just thinking that I’m starting to understand the phrase. Sometimes it does rather feel like I’m surrendering my life to you.”

“Okay. Are you fishing for a joke about me stabbing you in the back?”

“Tsk. So predictable… Shall I counter something about casting magic with my magnificent staff?”

“Hmm,” Lavellan says, snuggling in closer. “Come to think of it, if anything in the world has to kill me, I really do hope it’s your dick.”

“Well, that would be a twist. All this time I think you’re unkillable and then it turns out your one weakness was right here in my trousers.”

“You already know full well that my one weakness is in your trousers, Dorian. One glimpse of you naked and my brain shuts all the way off.”

“Not _all_ the way… For instance, your motor skills seem to be left intact.”

Lavellan chuckles, bringing another kiss to the spot under Dorian’s chin. “Pure animal instinct,” he murmurs, and then he nips Dorian’s skin with a flash of teeth, as if in demonstration—provoking a breathy sound of amusement from Dorian’s throat.

“At least your animal instinct is leading you into beds these days,” Dorian says, “rather than caves. It’s an improvement, don’t you think?”

“Uh—no, I’m pretty sure I’d still fuck you in a cave.”

“Given the chance, you mean. Which you won’t be.”

“Never say never, Dorian…”

“Sweet Maker,” Dorian laughs. “Please, let’s be a little more discerning about the goals we set, shall we?”

“What?” Lavellan asks, creasing up his brow, pretending to be hurt. “You wouldn’t fuck me in a cave? You would turn me down if I asked?”

“No, I would not ‘turn you down.’ I would helpfully sweep you off your feet and carry you straight to the nearest inn.”

“There aren’t any inns in this part of the wilderness. No inns for days.”

“What on earth are we doing here, then?”

“The ‘why’ doesn’t matter, Dorian. The question is, _would_ you fuck me in a cave? If it were our only option?”

Dorian sighs dramatically. “Very well. If it would make you happy, then… yes, I suppose I would.”

Lavellan brightens up. “Really?”

“Ahem. That was a worst-case scenario, not a suggestion.”

“I’m just touched. Am I not allowed to be touched?”

“Well, I hope you’re allowed to be touched, otherwise I’m in serious trouble,” Dorian says, which makes Lavellan roll his eyes and laugh at the same time. “Why are you so surprised? I would do almost anything to make you happy. Even if it is… cold and objectionable.”

“Really? Anything?”

“If it makes you happy.”

Lavellan smiles appreciatively, then leans in close, touching the tip of Dorian’s nose with his own, gazing into his eyes, and whispering: “Then please would you _take my fucking knife._ ”

Halfway through leaning in for a kiss, Dorian laughs. “Oh, all right. I’ll take your stupid knife.”

“Don’t call it that. It might just save your stupid ass.”

“I shall deliver a fitting apology if it does,” Dorian says. “A grand one, even. A ceremonial admission that my ass is forever stupider than your knife.”

“Good. The knife and I are looking forward to that.”

Dorian laughs again. “You frighten me sometimes, Amatus.” 

“Well, you know what always makes me feel safer?” Lavellan asks, and then, in concert with Dorian, who speaks over him, predicting his answer: “Knives.”

“Figures,” Dorian says. “Well, who knows? Perhaps in carrying your knife around I’ll also gain an affinity for stabbing people.”

“I would find that very attractive, if you did,” Lavellan says. “…I really would, though. Is that incredibly weird?”

“I find _you_ very attractive,” Dorian says, “so evidently my judgment on your weirdness can’t be trusted.”

“Good point,” Lavellan says. “I suppose that’s lucky for me.”

* * *

Under the cover of darkness, Lavellan follows the city sewers to the upper-class neighbourhood of Minrathous that contains Valris’s estate.

He’s not sure he’ll even get in today, but he’s just going to take a look. Seek an entry point. Hopefully make some form of brilliant plan that will let him rescue Soreli.

Lavellan paws into his pockets, making sure he has everything—spare dagger, knockout powder… 

And then his hand touches a folded piece of paper that he doesn’t remember putting there. Curiously, he pulls it out and reads:

_Amatus: Try not to die today! I will be terribly disappointed if you do. Yours,_

…followed by a slightly phallic drawing of a sparkler.

Lavellan laughs aloud, tucking the note back into his jacket, right close to his heart. “Brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dorks
> 
> NEXT TIME: Well, I’m sure this will be...... Totally fine.
> 
> (Also: If, like Aquinea, you wonder if Lavellan is telling the truth about Dorian and the ram ritual, you can find that out [right here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10935426/chapters/24328767) my dudes)
> 
> (Also also: thanks for your patience on this one! So much life disaster these last few weeks, aaaaaa. Updates might be slow for a bit but they’re still coming, I assure you!)


End file.
